Heart and Soul
by Sillimaure
Summary: The Dementor attack on Harry during the summer after his fourth year leaves him on the verge of having his wand snapped. Unwilling to leave anything to chance, Sirius Black sets events into motion which will change Harry's life forever. HP/HG/FD
1. Prologue – Momentous Events

******Title:** Heart and Soul**  
****Author:** Sillimaure**  
****Summary:** The Dementor attack on Harry during the summer after his fourth year leaves him on the verge of having his wand snapped. Unwilling to leave anything to chance, Sirius Black sets events into motion which will change Harry's life forever.**  
****Rating:** PG**  
****Disclaimer:** The Harry Potter universe is owned by JK Rowling. I do not claim ownership, or do this for any monetary gain, and fully understand she can shut me down any time she pleases.**  
****Author's Thanks:** Thanks to Cibbler and Déjà Vu for looking over the initial chapter and for glancing over my outline and telling me where I'm messing up. Also thanks to texan-muggle who has kindly lent his assistance for this clean up.

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"You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body."

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**Prologue – Momentous Events**

It was unfortunate but true—there were far too many similarities between Azkaban and 12 Grimmauld Place.

Of course, many would consider such a statement maudlin at best and outright farcical at worst. After all, how could a house—admittedly a run-down, gloomy mansion straight from a Muggle horror movie—be the equal of the most feared wizarding prison in the world, one which few, if any, were known to leave with their lives, much less their sanity, intact? For instance, while an inmate at Azkaban could expect no more than a small, dank, dirty, and cheerless cell, Grimmauld Place was at least spacious, with three levels, all of which were available to a tired and bored occupant.

But therein lay the similarities once again, as the accessible space in which to wander was no cheerier than the cell back in the prison had been, decorated as it was by dark, peeling wallpaper, a row of severed elf heads, and gloomy, threadbare furnishings, among other decorations, all equally cheery and attractive. And whereas the prison of Azkaban boasted some of the vilest creatures to ever roam the earth, the great house at Grimmauld Place boasted its own version of evil and horror: a house-elf who wandered around the house muttering about Blood Traitors, Mudbloods, and filthy, nasty masters and a painting of a dead, bitter old madwoman who berated everyone who didn't live down to her low standards. In a word: everyone.

It was an uncharitable thought about his mother, perhaps, but Sirius Black was nothing if not honest, and his life experiences had jaded him beyond the point of making meaningless excuses for his less than worthy relatives, even before his extended sojourn in Azkaban. His whole family, while most had not been Death Eaters, had certainly held similar beliefs with Voldemort and his merry band of crazies and had, as a whole, been about as pleasant as a nest of hungry acromantulas—and almost as personable too. Unfortunately, the décor in their main domicile had matched the family attitudes quite nicely—it had not been a cheery place growing up, especially for one who by inclination had never espoused the same ideals as his family.

The sun was setting in the west, illuminating the walls of the room in the softest pastels—yellows, oranges, and pinks, all mixed together, creating a brighter atmosphere in the old house than it would ever see at any other time of day. The room was large, and like the rest of the old house, the furnishings tatty. The wallpaper, where it had not completely worn down to the wall behind, was faded and gray, not that even whole it would have inspired any more than a glance and a shudder. But this room did have one redeeming feature—it was the home of his one faithful companion, Buckbeak, the hippogriff who was as highly sought after as Sirius himself.

Sighing, Sirius patted the sleeping hippogriff on the head and leaned back in his chair. He had never liked this house and could not remember having spent more than a few moments in his mother's room as a youngster. Even then, from what he could remember of his few times in this room, the room had been decaying, much as the rest of the house—falling into ashes as the proud history of his family crumbled along with it. At one time, the Blacks had been among the most respected and influential families in all of wizarding Britain. The changes in their family fortunes did not happen overnight, but although he was aware many of his family would have disagreed, to Sirius it was obvious that the decision of his ancestor Antares Black to support the dark forces began their decline. For more than four centuries, the Blacks had made a point of living up to their dark name, causing their former power to be sapped as the family died supporting lost causes and evil Pureblood agendas. Now, he was the last of the once strong family to bear the name—of his three cousins, one had been disowned, and all had married others and now bore different names.

And although he did not like to admit it, he was also painfully aware that centuries of inbreeding had contributed to the downfall. Just one example was his mother, whose maiden name had been Black—she had been a cousin of his father, Orion. There were far too many instances of such matches in his family tree, and Sirius had been desperate since he had understood the ramifications of such close marriages to avoid the same. Breaking the cycle of dark leanings and inbred marriages would, he hoped, change his family's fortunes and give his children a happier growing environment than the one to which he had been subjected.

Sirius snorted bitterly, causing his faithful companion to open one baleful eye in reproach before closing it and snuggling contentedly down into the mattress once again. The antics of his companion went largely unnoticed as Sirius stared at the walls of his mother's chamber, a tear slipping silently down his cheek in regret for the path his life had taken. There had been so much promise, so much to look forward to, now all turned to ashes.

He remembered the dreams of a group of teenage boys, dreams which now did not have a hope of coming true. Their sons (of course, the Marauders would all have first-born sons) would play together, eventually taking Hogwarts by storm, carrying on their fathers' tradition of pranks, mischief, and enmity with the hated Slytherins. Their families would grow closer and closer, forming a powerful force in the wizarding world, promoting change and equality for all, making their world a better place.

And where were they all now? Pettigrew, a traitor, betraying Sirius's best friend to his most hated enemy; Remus, growing old before his time due to his affliction and the life he had lived; Sirius, having spent most of his adult life in the worst hell on earth for the crimes of another; and James, now dead these fourteen years… all lost, ashes like all of their dreams for the future.

James—Merlin, how he missed James! The Marauders had been close in their mischief and adventures, although Peter had always been somewhat of an outsider even then, but Sirius and James had been like brothers, certainly closer than Sirius had ever been to his own brother.

A rare smile lighting his features, Sirius thought back to the day he had first met James. As a young boy of eleven, Sirius had been frightened at the prospect of going out into the world, but paradoxically, had been equally frightened at the thought of remaining in the decrepit old house which had been his home. Not knowing much beyond the world his parents had weaved for him, the only thing the young Sirius had known for certain was that the vitriolic Pureblood dogma, spouted so often by his mother, had somehow never sat well with him, although he certainly could not have claimed to have much experience beyond the confines of his home, his parents' circle of friends, and the few playmates he had had from among the children of his parents' friends.

Enter James Potter, one who Sirius knew immediately was a political enemy of his family, and Sirius could not help but be immediately charmed by his newfound friend's self-confidence and disarming charisma. Even at a young age, James had had a presence about him, much the same as his son had evinced many years later, Sirius decided after some reflection. They had become instant friends on that train to Hogwarts, and by the time they had reached the hallowed halls of the ancient institution, Sirius had known what his life had been missing amongst the conniving and hate-filled halls of his former house.

The Sorting Hat had certainly picked up on Sirius's strongest characteristic, as he was soon to find out, for it took a substantial measure of bravery to go against Lady Walburga Black. Not only had Sirius become the only member of the Black family other than his Aunt Andromeda to be sorted into a house other than Slytherin (even his great-aunt Dorea, who had defied her parents and married a Potter, had been a Slytherin), but even Andromeda had not had the audacity to be sorted into the much-hated house of Gryffindor alongside the aforementioned Potters, Blood Traitors, and enemies to the house of Black for centuries. Within days of the event, word had made its way back to his mother, who had responded with a steady stream of Howlers and diatribe-filled letters and communiqués to the Headmaster that he had made a mistake. His parents had even undertaken a journey by Floo to Hogwarts, demanding the Headmaster repeat the Sorting so their eldest could be removed from the "house of Blood Traitors" and placed back into the place for all "proper Pureblood wizards". Her anger and spite upon Dumbledore refusing her demand had been loud and long, but to the relief of the young boy, the Headmaster had stood firm, stating the Sorting Hat's decision was final, unless other factors made a student's position within a house untenable. Such was not the case in this situation.

Swearing her son was betraying the family, his mother was forced to retreat from the school in defeat, but not before informing Sirius, in a loud and wrathful manner, he was not allowed to return home for Christmas.

"You may stay in the house of traitors and cowards, if it means so much to you, but in _my_ house, you are not welcome."

To that very day, Sirius was able to recall the exact words of her denunciation, the crazed look in her eyes, the spittle which flew from her foam-flecked lips, and the cold, austere stare his father had fixed upon him as he looked on with disdain.

Sirius chuckled, remembering his mother had always been the spokesperson of the family, while his father had always looked on in disapproving silence. In fact, his father, a dour, gaunt sort of man, had rarely, in Sirius's memory, spoken up or distinguished himself in any sort of manner. Sirius was uncertain whether this was by choice or by necessity, but he suspected his father had been a rather notable example of the perils of inbreeding. There simply was nothing remarkable or of note to remember him by.

As a result, cut adrift from his family, the young Sirius would have been lost were it not for his new friendship with young James Potter. Quickly figuring out the problem, James had immediately sent a message off to his father, receiving a response the next day, complete with an invitation to join the Potter family for Christmas. From that day forward, they were inseparable, becoming the brothers in spirit which James never had and sharing a closeness Sirius had never experienced with his own brother, Regulus.

Of course, Lord Potter had been a little distant and more difficult to get to know than his son, hardly surprising since the elderly man had lived with enmity with the Black family his whole life. But once Sirius had come to know the man, he had become almost like a surrogate father for a young boy in need of someone to look up to. In a way, James's father was as responsible for the man Sirius had become as was James himself—and certainly more than his father or any others of his family could be credited, even if they did want to take credit, considering the fact that Sirius had essentially turned his back on centuries of family political and philosophical leanings. Although he was called back to his parents' home on occasion over the years (generally in an attempt to persuade him of the "error of his ways"), from that point forward, Sirius spent much of his time with James's family, finally being disowned by his own at the age of sixteen. His father had died only a year after he completed Hogwarts, his mother following five years later. Although he had been disowned by his mother, it was supreme irony that his father had never made it official, perhaps realizing his brother Regulus was likely not destined for a long life as a minion of the Dark Lord (prophetic in hindsight). And with his incarceration being illegal due to his never having been convicted of any crime, Sirius retained his rights as Lord Black upon his father's death, regardless of his time in prison, whereas if his father had made his banishment from the family official, then Draco Malfoy, as the nearest relation to his father, would have assumed the title of Lord Black, greatly enhancing the rich, yet relatively new, family's fortunes and prestige.

The portrait of his mother now hung in the entrance hall to the old house, convincing Sirius it had been placed there to torture him and him alone. The first time he had ventured into the house after his escape from Azkaban, his mother had praised him for finally "seeing the light" and betraying those awful Potters to his rightful lord, her malicious and contemptible visage fairly glowing with glee at the demise of Sirius's closest friend. He swore his ears still rang with the shrieks his mother had made when he had told her, contempt dripping from his voice, that he had _not_ betrayed his friends and certainly considered the monster to whom she so freely gave praise the lowest form of scum to be found. Only the memory of her wrath could bring a smile to his lips, as he finally gave the hateful old woman a dressing down he had longed to give during her lifetime.

As amusing as it was to bait his mother, Sirius found that today his mind could not stay focused, and once again his thoughts drifted back to his lost friend, and the melancholy which had become his constant companion once again settled into his soul. The death of James had left a hole which still felt like a gaping wound, even now, more than thirteen years later. He had hoped to begin healing the damage through a relationship with James's son—his godson—once his name had been cleared and he could take up his duties as Harry's godfather, but once again things had gone sour.

Sirius cursed loudly at his mistake—if only he'd thought to keep Pettigrew bound and unconscious until he had been safely handed over to the proper authorities, ensuring that the rat would finally reap his rewards for his nefarious deeds, then things would have turned out very different. With the rat being proven to be alive, Sirius was certain Wizengamot would finally have been forced to grant his long-delayed trial and the travesty of justice would finally have been overturned under the effects of Veritaserum. Then, he could have been granted custody of the young man and begun the task of improving his life, finally fulfilling the vow he had made to James as a young man to watch over and protect his young son. The whispers in the back of his consciousness, that he had been in no shape at the time to be responsible for a teenage boy, he conveniently pushed back to the recesses of his mind to be ignored.

No, instead the rat had fled and Sirius had been forced to continue in this half existence, hiding, skulking, avoiding the authorities as the most hunted man in magical Britain, wishing desperately he had some way to be useful, not only to Harry, but also in the fight to oppose Voldemort. His forced exile was seriously beginning to grate against his nerves, which had already battered by years of Dementor exposure.

The first months of his freedom had been trying, but he had made it through, intent on the need to protect his godson and bring the traitor Pettigrew to justice. Although the second goal had been unsuccessful, Harry's safety was by far the most important consideration, and Sirius had been persuaded by Dumbledore to go to a safelocations so he could begin to heal. His sojourn in the South Pacific had been restful and soothing, but his subsequent return to Britain due to Harry's inclusion in the Tri-Wizard Tournament had put him back on the run. Unable to bear being far away from Harry during his trials in the tournament, Sirius had decided to resume his Animagus form again. He had hidden out in a cave in the nearby mountains, near enough to Harry to be of use if necessary, hoping his nearby presence would give the boy a sense of confidence in the damnable tournament if nothing else. Between trying to be there for Harry, and trips back to Grimmauld to look through some of James's old papers, trying to find some way to improve Harry's life and assume his role of guardian, even if unknown to the general populace, Sirius had at least been busy enough that his own problems had become secondary, and therefore, largely forgotten.

However, once that had all been resolved, it had been back to Grimmauld Place, and this time, there was no escape from the disgusting old house; although he would cheerfully have gone back to the South Pacific and sat on the beach, Dumbledore had cautioned against it. Now that Voldemort had returned, even though the official line from Fudge was that his return was impossible, the Ministry was on the lookout for him leaving the country. That—and the fact that they had stepped up the search for him within the confines of Britain itself—meant Grimmauld had now effectively become his prison, much as Azkaban had been before it.

The worst part of his situation was the feeling of uselessness, which pervaded his entire being. He wanted—he _needed_ to be of use to his godson. His promise to James upon the birth of the little sprog remained unfulfilled, wrecked by his impulsive decision to pursue Wormtail instead of caring for Harry as was his duty. He had no way of knowing if he still would have been thrown into Azkaban without trial for betraying James and Lily, but at the very least he would have been more coherent when the questioners came rather than standing dazed in the middle of a war zone, slapped in manacles, and carted off before he was aware of what was happening. He had failed Harry once, but he was determined the experience would not be repeated.

Harry—a part of him was amazed they had become as close as they had in so short a time. The adventure at the end of Harry's third year had forged a bond between them which could only be possible under the most stressful of situations, and the limited time they had been in one another's company had only served to strengthen it. Looking at his godson, Sirius could only be astonished at the resemblance he showed to his parents. He had traces of Lily in him—the eyes, which everyone commented on, being the most obvious—but otherwise, he was his father's son. Give him the brown eyes of his father, and Sirius would have been hard pressed to tell them apart.

In temperament, though, Harry was much more like his mother than his father. Lily had been introspective and studious, quiet until provoked, and then like a hurricane—tempestuous in her fury, but quickly calming once that fury had been spent. And although Harry was not as confident as his mother, his quiet and introverted nature was eerily similar to the woman Sirius had known. James, by contrast, had been brash and self-assured, even as a boy of eleven, likely to get into mischief, as his career as a Marauder later attested to, and to be honest, somewhat of a bully until age and experience had tempered his youthful exuberance. In other words, nothing like his quiet son, although Sirius suspected Harry's experiences with his relatives were a major cause of his demeanor. The mere thought of those horrid Dursleys caused Sirius's fists to clench in rage. If he had anything to do with it, Harry's removal from that house at the end of this summer would be his last.

Knowing his anger would not solve anything, Sirius forced himself to calm down, and his thoughts to return to his former musings. The other major player in both Lily and James's life was a certain dark and broody potions master. Sirius knew that much of James's problems with Snape—and what had occurred after—were in a large part due to their differences in temperament and their reactions to each other. Snape had immediately dismissed James as an arrogant Pureblood (Sirius had be to be honest and acknowledge the charge was to a certain extent true), while James had responded in kind, calling Snape a "greasy git" and an antisocial loner (in this sense, James had been completely correct). The two had struck sparks immediately, and the enmity between Slytherin and Gryffindor had certainly not helped.

If it had not been for Lily—who knew Snape before coming to Hogwarts—there likely would have been nothing more than a simple dislike between the two young men rather than the full-blown rivalry and hatred which eventually blossomed. Although Lily had been initially repulsed by James's manners and arrogance, he had quickly caught on to her displeasure and changed some things about himself, not only to impress Lily, but also—as he told Sirius several times—because it was the right thing to do, in order to improve himself. It was then that the man James was to become was truly unleashed, as he became more studious, more tolerant to others, and more at peace with who he truly was. He became and a better friend than ever—as true a leader as Sirius had ever seen.

This, of course, had the effect of improving his relationship with Lily to the point that by their fourth year the two had become almost inseparable, and Lily, although she was too studious and rule-oriented to ever actively participate in their mischief, became an unofficial member of their group, and in the process drew almost as close to James's friends as James himself. Sirius had even harbored a crush for the beautiful young witch for some time, but knowing how close Lily and James were—and suspecting there would never be anyone in her life to match James—he decided early on he would not invite the heartache of unrequited love. Instead, he had decided to control his feelings and be happy for them. Anything else, he suspected, would have driven a wedge between him and his closest friend, causing rivalry and bitterness, and likely dissolving their friendship.

Unfortunately, a direct consequence of James's improved relationship with Lily was her distance and eventual estrangement from her childhood friend. To say Snape was unhappy with the closeness between his closest friend and his greatest enemy would be a gross understatement, and the two had had many disagreements and outright fights over the matter. What Sirius had feared would happen between him and James had actually happened between Lily and Snape, to the point that by the middle of their fifth year the two former friends would not even acknowledge one another, let alone speak to each other. It was obvious Snape had blamed James for the loss of his friend (some cynical members of their group had insisted Lily had been Snape's _only_ friend), increasing his bitterness and hostility.

Without a doubt, this had led to an escalation to the rivalry between the two antagonists, and Snape's openly hostile and vindictive behavior toward James had been actively reciprocated by the Marauders. It had finally come to a head when their sixth-year Defense professor had had the bad judgment only weeks into the term to pair them off for a dueling exercise in class. Unsurprisingly, insults had been thrown back and forth, unsuitable hexes and curses had been exchanged, and the encounter had degenerated into an all-out war between the two, the final result of which was that they had both landed in the hospital wing. Dumbledore had then stepped in, taking both Snape and James aside and informing them in no uncertain terms that their bitter rivalry had no place within the halls of Hogwarts—any further action between the two would result in significant repercussions, not excluding expulsion from school.

Their relationship after that could only be characterized as a cold war—neither relaxed in the presence of the other, and all their professors were careful not to pair them up or leave them alone for any reason whatsoever (not that it was a good idea to _ever_ mix students from Gryffindor and Slytherin without excessive supervision). Things had continued in this vein until late in the seventh year, when it had become evident Snape had become a Death Eater. Sirius and Remus had discussed it, and then cornered Snape alone one night just before curfew, without informing James or Lily what they were doing. What had followed had been an object lesson in the perils of crossing the Marauders and an ultimatum for Snape to stay away from Lily and James—any attempt to contact them, or attack them in the service of his new master would be met with lethal force. The memory of an ashen Snape quivering in the corridor where they had left him was still impressed upon Sirius's memory almost a decade and a half later.

From that moment forward, Snape had avoided the Marauders assiduously, but although he could not prove it, Sirius suspected James and Lily's betrayal had been in some way influenced by the man. Whether he had somehow gotten past the mutual animosity and recruited Peter or had in some fashion passed off information to Voldemort which had been instrumental in his pursuit of the Potters specifically, Sirius could not say, but his memory of seeing Snape on their last day of their seventh year would not leave him. His expression had been one of revenge at all costs. Heaven help the man if Sirius ever discovered the truth of the events which had lead up to his friends' deaths—Merlin himself would not be able to save Snape against Sirius's wrath.

The sound of a chime broke through Sirius's musings and he stood and stretched. Although he had donated the old manor to the Order to use as a safe house (the primary occupants being, of course, himself and Buckbeak) and as headquarters, other than regular meetings of the order, there was not much in the way of traffic, which meant Sirius was left largely to his solitary musings. Periodically, though, someone would stop by for some reason or another, and Sirius did not much care who they were—as long as they could break up the monotony of his life.

Giving Buckbeak a final pat on the head, to which the hippogriff wuffed softly, Sirius exited the room and made his way down the stairs and into the main hallway on the ground floor. His arrival sent the painting of his mother into fits, presumably berating him once again for his "unfortunate" choices, but Sirius merely grinned cheekily and flipped a jaunty salute. The silencing charm he had finally figured how to lay around the portrait had caused her, if it were possible for a ghost, to experience an apoplectic fit, but for once, the silence suited Sirius quite well. Smiling to himself and thinking just how good it was to tweak his mother's nose, Sirius entered the front sitting room, where the fireplace was located.

He instantly knew there was something wrong. Although it was not unusual for Dumbledore to arrive at Grimmauld unannounced, the characteristic grandfatherly smile and twinkling eyes were absent and his visage held a look of concern and anxiety.

"Ah, Sirius, I was about to go looking for you," Dumbledore greeted him as he dropped into one of the armchairs, his hunched shoulders and almost boneless manner, generally foreign to the usually spry and active (especially for his age) Headmaster, betraying his weariness.

After staring at him with concern for several moments, Sirius finally followed suit and sat, already bracing himself for whatever news had rattled the usually imperturbable man. "What's wrong, Albus? I presume this is not a social call."

Dumbledore shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing in response. "Though I wish it were, alas, I fear it is only the beginning."

"It's Harry, isn't it?"

Dumbledore chuckled ruefully, causing Sirius to reflect that almost everything seemed to revolve around Harry. He was a flashpoint, a true magnet for trouble—as his time in Hogwarts had proved—whether he wanted to be one or not.

"Yes, Sirius, it is. I have just spent the past several hours in an emergency session of the Wizengamot, trying to overturn the ministry's decision to expel young Mr. Potter from Hogwarts."

Sirius was aghast at the Headmaster's words. "Expelled from Hogwarts?"

"I was able to convince them he should be allowed to tell his side of the story, although it was not easy and may have used up what political capital I have left."

"I think you had better start at the beginning, Albus," Sirius responded, still confused as to why the ministry could possibly be considering expelling his godson from Hogwarts. "What happened?"

Sighing yet again, Dumbledore glanced over at Sirius, his demeanor more wretched than Sirius could ever remember seeing. "It appears young Harry and that whale of a boy he calls his cousin were attacked by Dementors this afternoon."

Whatever Sirius had expected, Dementors was certainly not on the list. "Dementors? In Little Whinging?"

"I am afraid so, Sirius," Dumbledore confirmed.

"Is he all right?"

"Young Harry is fine. You have seen his Patronus—a mere two Dementors is child's play for the young man."

"So only two?" At Dumbledore's nod he continued, "But why? How did they end up so far from Azkaban?"

"Unfortunately, I have no answers, Sirius. I was called in by Arthur Weasley late this afternoon—he had gotten wind of the Trace detection and the actions carried out against Harry by the Improper Use of Magic Office. I Apparated to Little Whinging immediately and spoke with Harry myself. He and his cousin were set upon by two Dementors. Harry chased them away and helped his cousin home. Although Harry was not affected to any great extent, his cousin was still in bad shape from the attack."

"And then?"

"I went to the Ministry building immediately, but the notice had already gone out."

Sirius winced. "It was bad, I assume?"

"Standard procedure," Dumbledore replied with a shrug. "As this was not his first incident, it was considered a repeat offense. He was to be detained pending a hearing and have his wand snapped immediately."

"Without them even asking why?" Sirius was enraged now—the Ministry was messing with _his_ godson, and he was not about to sit back and do nothing. "Isn't that what the term _Reasonable_ is all about in the statute? How can the Ministry be so stupid?"

"It is not so much stupid, as deliberately obtuse. Minister Fudge, in his infinite wisdom, has decided that Voldemort "simply can't have returned" and has responded to the threat in the time-honored tradition of burying his head in the sand rather than attempting to determine if Harry is telling the truth."

Nodding in response, Sirius responded, "I know all about Fudge denying Voldemort's return, but what about the Dementors? How can Fudge possibly hide the presence of Dementors in a Muggle area from the people?"

"Simple. The Dementors are under the control of the Ministry and therefore could not have been so many miles away from Azkaban. Thus, Harry must be lying and must be punished."

"But this is a Patronus, Albus. This isn't casting a levitating spell or turning his cousin into a pig. How can the Ministry explain away the fact that he cast such a powerful, specific spell?"

"The Trace cannot pick up the specific spell—it can only report that magic has been used and by whom. In fact, there is some question as to whether it is even that accurate. You have heard about the incident before Harry's second year?"

At Sirius's nod, he continued. "If the Trace picked up the magic of a house-elf and the Ministry thought it was Harry, it casts doubt on the whole detection system the Ministry has in place. I have tried since then to find out what it actually consists of, but have been denied. Perhaps I should have worked for the ministry, some time in my past…"

Noting the Headmaster's introspective visage, Sirius decided he needed to push the conversation back to the salient points. "Were there any witnesses?"

"Only Harry, Dudley, and a Squib I have tasked with keeping an eye on the young man. You know their testimonies will be ignored, if they are even called to testify. Fudge seems determined to remove and discredit anyone who dares contradict him about Voldemort, and unfortunately, Harry, as the one who was actually there when he returned, is at the top of the list."

Sirius peered at Dumbledore intently. "I knew it was bad, Albus, but this I didn't know. What is he doing?"

"Fudge is, unfortunately, a passable peacetime Minister, but he is wholly unsuited to leading us during times of war," Dumbledore responded. "He has declared it impossible for Voldemort to have returned and has spent the past several weeks trying to erode my support in the Wizengamot and the ICW, completely refusing to increase the Auror force, freeze the assets of known Death Eaters, or do anything else useful, for that matter. We stand on the brink of war—only Voldemort's need to gather his strength has prevented his taking over the Ministry already."

"And the Wizengamot? Is there nothing that can be done by the legislative arm of the government?"

"Unfortunately, Wizengamot is paralyzed by opposing factions and is largely controlled by the Purebloods in any case—you know where their sympathies, if not outright support, will lie in the coming conflict, Sirius."

And Sirius did know all too well. In the past war, although only an ultraconservative few openly supported Voldemort, their leanings were evident. The powerful Pureblood faction was interested primarily in three things—protecting their power base, preserving their blood purity, and growing their wealth. The other faction to rival them could no longer be called true Pureblood because of their willingness to marry outside the core Pureblood society and were made up of families like the Potters—old, powerful, and rich, but to purists, they were tainted by the Muggleborn dregs of society, or Halfbloods, which were not much better.

Knowing, however, that the balance of power in Wizengamot was not the pressing issue, Sirius turned his attention back to the Headmaster, his mind playing with thoughts and half-made plans for his godson's future. Whether he had consciously considered the potential for magical Britain to become an unfriendly environment for Harry he did not know, but he had considered leaving the country for other reasons—notably due to his distaste for a society which had locked him away in a hellish dungeon without caring about the truth.

"What about Harry, Albus? Is there any way to salvage this?"

"My influence has been lessened in Wizengamot, but not eliminated. I was able to defer Harry's expulsion pending a hearing on the matter."

"That's all good and well, Albus, but Wizengamot does not sound like a friendly environment for Harry right now. What are his chances?"

"Difficult to say," Dumbledore responded, his hands held together, his fingers steepled in front of his face as he thought the matter through. "I was able to carry the day based on a sense of fairness—when I informed Wizengamot of the spell Harry cast and the reason for it, even some of the Pureblood faction felt it wise to hear him out on the matter in lieu of summarily pronouncing sentence, due in part because the thought of Dementors anywhere they are not supposed to be is of great concern to all, regardless of political leanings. I believe I still hold enough support to ensure Harry's exoneration, but it may be a near thing."

Sirius slumped back in his chair, regarding Dumbledore, trying to get a sense of his confidence level. "Albus, this is Harry we are talking about here. I don't know why Voldemort is coming after him with such single-mindedness, but I do know if Harry's wand is snapped, he's an easy target. We have to be certain we can ensure his freedom before we commit to this. Once you take him into the Ministry for a hearing, our course is set—if he is convicted, they will snap his wand and bind his magic right there. Are you certain you can persuade them?"

"Alas, my dear boy, nothing is ever certain," Dumbledore replied, rising to his feet. "But I believe in the ultimate rightness of our cause and that we will carry the day."

"Albus, perhaps it's time to remove Harry from England."

His voice was quiet, yet controlled, and his statement caused Dumbledore to blink in surprise and sink back into his seat, a look of contemplation etched on his face. However, he was not known as a powerful wizard and shrewd political opponent for nothing—he immediately recovered and regarded Sirius carefully.

"What are you suggesting, Sirius?"

"The political situation is no longer favorable for Harry here, if it ever was," Sirius replied regarding Dumbledore intently, making certain the other man knew through his body language exactly how serious he was. "I think the time has come to remove him from this society for his own good."

"And where would you take him?"

"Does it really matter? Anywhere would be preferable to here. We could relocate somewhere on the other side of the world, hire some tutors to complete his education—hell, I could help him complete the core subjects myself."

Dumbledore appeared lost in thought for several moments before focusing back on Sirius once again. He had a hint of the lecturing Headmaster in his manner, and Sirius felt like he was back in Hogwarts being taken to task for some prank. He had to admit to himself, somewhat ruefully, that although they had rarely been able to prove his complicity, more often than not, it had been he and his friends who had been the perpetrators of what had gone on in those hallowed halls.

"I believe your idea has two problems, Sirius. First, young Harry himself; he has made friends—very close friends—at Hogwarts, and I doubt you could convince him to leave them to Voldemort's tender mercies while he himself escaped to relative safety."

It was true—Sirius had not thought about that aspect of Harry's character. In that, he was very much his father's son.

"And the other?"

"Suppose we followed your plan and you moved with Harry to another country… then what?"

"I'm not certain I follow you…" Sirius responded uncertainly.

"Just this: if you were to go away from Britain, you may be safe for several years or even decades, but what happens once England becomes too small to contain the Dark Lord?"

To say Sirius was surprised was an understatement. "You aren't suggesting Voldemort will win!"

"I'm not suggesting it, Sirius, I am guaranteeing it. I believe Harry will have an integral part to play in Voldemort's ultimate defeat and he cannot do it if he is hidden away on some tropical island somewhere, drinking piña coladas and surfing."

Sirius regarded the Headmaster, his disbelief turning to a shrewd idea Dumbledore was holding back.

"You know something, Albus."

"Indeed I do," Dumbledore agreed with aplomb. "Now, however, is not the time to discuss this any further."

"Albus, he's my godson—I have to know."

"Rest assured, Sirius, in time I will tell you all I know. But the conversation must be deferred for another time—for now, I have some other tasks which cannot be delayed. Although we may have no other recourse but to flee from England at some future time, the situation has not become that desperate yet—we have no other option but to continue to play the game in the hope of turning it in our favor. Young Harry has a destiny which he must fulfill for the good of the wizarding world—and indeed the world at large. I had hoped to delay the inevitable to give the young man some time to grow and mature, but it appears events have conspired against us and our time is now dwindling."

"I will have an accounting, Albus," Sirius growled in response. Although Dumbledore was a powerful wizard and excellent leader, he had a tendency to be secretive and at times viewed those around him as mere chess pieces. This time, however, Sirius would ensure he understood what Harry was facing and would face it by his side. He owed it to James; he owed it to himself.

"I understand, Sirius. I promise to give you a full accounting, but for now I must leave you."

Dumbledore moved to the Floo powder and grabbed a handful of it. But before he went through, he turned back to Sirius.

"I will arrange to have Harry evacuated from the Dursley house and brought here. The situation there may now have become untenable in any case—they were incensed that Dudley's proximity to Harry resulted in the threat to his life and have demanded Harry's immediate removal, never to return."

"They won't do anything to him, will they?"

"Not at this time," Dumbledore confirmed. "I have informed his uncle we will be looking for alternate housing arrangements for the rest of the summer, but his removal will have to be handled with delicacy and kept from the knowledge of certain elements in the Ministry."

"I will inform Kreacher to prepare for an influx of guests."

"Be prepared for anything—the world is about to become a much darker place."

With that ominous pronouncement, Dumbledore disappeared into the Floo Network leaving Sirius alone with his thoughts.

Although he was worried about Harry's state of mind in the aftermath of the Dementors' attack, he knew of his godson's capabilities and was confident Harry would emerge unscathed from the experience. The more pressing concern was Dumbledore's words regarding Harry's destiny and the immediate threat of punishment. If Dumbledore could not convince Wizengamot to acquit Harry or at least agree he had acted in self-defense, then what? Could he possibly take the chance of failure? Was there anything he could do?

A grim yet determined smile crossed Sirius's face, as he considered that he did indeed have another option. It had fallen literally out of the sky onto his lap the previous spring while he was searching through some of James's old family documents, partially to determine if James had left anything behind which would be of use to his son, partially in a vain attempt to find some way to remove Harry from the Tri-Wizard competition. His search had led him to a most startling document which had the power to change Harry's life and bring him some desperately-needed allies. Although those plans were still some months away, they could be accelerated—had to be accelerated in order to be of use to his godson in the immediate future.

A twinge of guilt made itself known in Sirius's conscience, understanding as he did this revelation had the power to turn Harry's life upside-down and that it had far-reaching consequences for not only his godson, but also for a particular friend of his. Yet, it was obvious to Sirius that anything which could be done must be done for Harry's sake—he would never be able to live with himself if he left even one arrow in the quiver and the situation went wrong. But it would not do to tell Dumbledore at this stage—he would find out when everyone else did.

His mind made up, Sirius turned and stalked down the hallway to his room on the second floor. He simply could not chance failure—too much depended on this, especially if Dumbledore's words about Harry's importance to Voldemort's ultimate defeat were to be believed. Although Sirius could not do much to help his godson in his current situation, perhaps others could.

In his room, he rummaged around on the old oak desk in the corner, finding the device for which he had been searching, and activated the old communication mirror he and the other Marauders had created many years ago to keep in touch during the summer. Of course, that had not been the only use to which they had put the mirrors, Sirius thought with a smile—their pranking value had been incalculable.

A moment later, a face appeared in the mirror. "Sirius, so good to see you," the man began, his face lighting up in a friendly smile. "What can I do for you?"

His voice was soft yet melodious and deep; his accent, while present, was understated and almost unnoticeable, unless one was paying attention to it. He was an austere yet handsome sort of man, powerful in his own right and eminently competent, and although they had only been acquaintances for a few months, Sirius already considered him an ally and a potential friend. Sirius had contacted him upon finding the document, and the other man, to his credit, had listened to Sirius's protestations of innocence when even his own countrymen would not. A short visit and a dose of Veritaserum later, he had also been convinced of Sirius's innocence and had begun to plan for his ultimate exoneration.

However, it was the contents of the documents upon which Sirius had come across which now held Sirius's interest. The documents were important in several ways and his companion had a stake in seeing that they were implemented, not to mention the fact that he felt he owed something to Harry because of his actions the previous year. If they played this right, they could ensure Harry's freedom and perhaps even tweak Fudge's nose in the process.

"Jean-Sebastian we need to speak—something has come up."

The man was silent for a moment. "I presume your news is not good?"

Sirius snorted. "That's an understatement. Harry was attacked by Dementors today outside his home. We need to accelerate our plans."

Jean-Sebastian's eyes burned with fury for several moments before he visibly calmed himself. "Your country appears to be making every effort to make Harry's life as difficult and dangerous as possible."

"Agreed. But I believe we can turn this around to our advantage."

"Well, then, I believe you must let me in on your plan," he said with an upturned eyebrow.

Sirius grinned in response and began to lay out the events of the day and his ideas for their response. They spent several hours in earnest conversation, planning, plotting, and determining their course of action. That night, when Sirius finally lay down to rest, his face held a smile—he had done his best to help his godson. It was a good beginning.

* * *

In another country, several hundred miles away, a man deactivated his communication mirror and sat back in his high-backed chair, staring unseeing at the desk in front of him. The information Sirius had provided him had changed many things, and although he knew in his heart that what they were about to do was for the best, a part of him wondered if his assessment would be agreed upon by others who would be affected by this decision. After all, some of those others would have to bear the major portion of the consequences of his actions—not himself.

Sighing, he leaned forward and rested his chin in his hand, brooding over the unfairness of the world. The temptation to simply write the whole situation off as a purely British problem was there, but he knew that to take such a myopic stance would do more harm than good in the end. The current future in the beleaguered country was bleak with a newly-reconstituted Voldemort running amok and the Ministry doing little to prepare for a protracted fight. No, the future of England and perhaps the whole world lay with one young man, a man he had just pledged to help, whether it was deemed his responsibility or not.

Then of course there was the personal debt he owed Harry Potter, one which Jean-Sebastian was not about to forget or conveniently push under the carpet. He owed Harry Potter—owed him his every effort and entire ability to protect.

Knowing there was really no other choice, Jean-Sebastian sighed and called for his house-elf assistant. There was much to be accomplished.


	2. Chapter 1 – Surprising Developments

**Chapter 1 – Surprising Developments**

Some days, it just did not pay to even get out of bed. Unfortunately, if your name happened to be Harry Potter, the above maxim was uncomfortably close to being the story of your life.

On this particular day, it was as yet unproven as to whether it would end up becoming a day to forget, but he had seen enough in his short life to know enough to never discount just how bad a day could get without seeing it through to its conclusion.

His morose thoughts and the knowledge of just how ridiculous he was being caused a bubble of laughter to escape from Harry's throat, catching the attention of his two companions, both of whom, he was certain, would berate him for his overly cynical thoughts if they were to ever learn of them. Or at least, _Hermione_ would—Ron would likely agree with him before muttering under his breath about the unfairness of life, something with which Harry privately agreed. But though Hermione would undoubtedly be correct in her assessment of his gloomy thoughts, Harry knew there was one inescapable truth about his life—sometimes it just sucked to be Harry Potter.

"Harry, I hardly think it's time for lightheartedness," Hermione scolded. Although her words were severe, the light of compassion lit up her voice, reminding Harry again how fortunate he was to have her friendship.

"Sorry, Hermione," he responded, trying—somewhat unsuccessfully, he thought—to appear contrite, "but something struck me as funny. If I don't laugh, I'll probably cry, so laughing at this point is better, don't you think?"

Her gaze softened, and she gazed at him with a fondness clearly visible in her eyes.

"What are you on about, mate?" Ron demanded peevishly, his eyes moving between his friends.

Harry shrugged. "What would _you_ do, Ron? I have to go on display this morning and may never come back to the magical world. Should I cry and throw a tantrum, or should I laugh? Sorry, but I prefer to laugh—I may go crazy otherwise."

"Don't talk like that, Harry," Ron muttered. "You aren't going to be expelled."

Hermione was clearly agitated. "Ron's right, Harry. Dumbledore would never allow it."

Although her words appeared calm and confident, there was an underlying tension evident in her voice—knowing Hermione as he did, Harry knew she was uncertain and deeply concerned for his welfare while trying to present a brave face. A swell of affection for the young witch filled him as he gazed at her warmly, wondering what he had possibly done right to deserve such a steadfast friend. Without her, he thought he would be lost to the vagaries and injustices of the world.

Hermione blushed and looked down, clearly uncomfortable with his scrutiny, though he was certain a half-smile had been plastered on her face the entire time. Glancing over at Ron, Harry lowered his gaze to the floor immediately at the suspicious glare his friend favored him with. Harry knew that Ron had begun to fancy Hermione, and since he had arrived at Grimmauld place nearly ten days before, Ron had taken to watching them closely, alert for any signs of affection beyond mere friendship.

Ron was his best male friend, and closest comrade, closer even than Hermione, largely, he thought, due to their status as roommates and their ability to relate to one another as boys. However, Harry had always understood his friend sometimes had the tendency to be somewhat of a fair-weather friend, prone to occasional fits of jealousy, while at the same time being possessive of his friendship with Harry and Hermione.

To be fair to Ron, Harry was well aware that it could not be easy to live in his shadow and he knew that at times Ron felt almost stifled being known as the best friend to the Boy-Who-Lived—not to mention younger brother to some truly exceptional wizards—rather than to being known based on who he was. However, although Ron certainly had his issues, as anyone else, for the most part he had been a good friend and staunch companion, and he certainly could not be accused of cowardice. The times he had willingly followed Harry into danger—from the Philosopher's Stone incident in their first year, to the Acromantulas and Chamber of Secrets in their second—Ron had been a steady and supportive friend, and co-conspirator in his adventures.

However, in the matter of Hermione, Harry knew he and Ron would be at odds, should Harry ever decide he fancied his closest female friend. Harry understood, as he suspected Ron still did not, that Ron would consider Hermione his territory due to his expressing interest in her first—the fact that he had not in actuality expressed that interest to the young woman in question would ultimately have no bearing on the matter in his own mind. It was not a failing in Ron, per se, but more simply the way his best friend's mind worked, inasmuch as Harry had insight into the workings of Ron's mind.

As for Harry's feelings on the matter of his best female friend—they were confused and not easily understood, even, he suspected, if he had given the matter a great deal of thought, which he had not. What Harry did know, was that he esteemed Hermione beyond anyone else of his acquaintance; she was his truest friend—the one who had stood by him in everything which had happened to him since his arrival in the magical world, the one upon whom he could always depend. Not even Ron could not make that claim.

Perhaps the fact that Harry was incapable of deciphering his own feelings was not to be wondered at due to his upbringing in the Dursley household. While Harry was aware of Hermione and understood she was growing from the bushy-haired, plain girl of her youth into an attractive young woman, he was not certain how he should feel about her, being so completely ill-prepared to judge his own feelings. Understanding her feelings was equally difficult, although the way she had snuck glances at him since his arrival, particularly when she thought he was not looking—coupled with her blush from moments earlier—seemed to indicate to Harry's inexperienced eye that he was not the only one to wonder at the state of their relationship.

But then again, knowing there was an insane and recently reincorporated madman out for his blood, could he subject Hermione to becoming an even larger target than she already was by openly declaring feelings for her?

Harry snorted to himself, well aware of the tongue lashing he would receive from her if she was ever aware of his thoughts. Although Hermione would undoubtedly appreciate his willingness and determination to protect her, she would not take kindly to him making decisions for her without her knowledge and consent. He could well imagine her indignation, considering it was their hearts he was reflecting on—although the subject had never been broached, he thought he knew her well enough to know she would believe the risk of openly declaring romantic feelings worth taking in order to be happy.

"Harry," a hesitant voice startled him out of his reverie. "Are you all right?"

His eyes coming back into focus, he peered back at his friends, aware of the concerned looks which adorned both of their faces. It hit him suddenly that he had been silent for some time.

Smiling, he nodded to them and started putting on his sneakers. "I'm fine, Hermione. I'm just worried about the hearing."

"You don't have to worry, Harry," Ron said with some confidence. "Dumbledore will take care of everything. You'll see."

"Thanks, Ron, I hope you're right. I'm trying to remain positive, but it's tough sometimes. Fudge has been out to get me ever since the tournament—looks like he's found his chance."

Glancing up, Harry recognized the encouraging looks on both his friends' faces. He sighed, aware his overly pessimistic outlook on life was not doing him any good, and was simultaneously worrying his friends. Consciously, he decided it was time to let his worries go and accept what was to come.

But whatever was to come, if Fudge was to succeed in his campaign to discredit and remove Harry from the wizarding world, Harry promised himself it would not come without a fight. If Fudge wanted to expel him, he would not do so without Harry standing up for himself. If he had been taught one thing during his fifteen years of life, it was to never turn your back on a bully. And that was what Fudge essentially was.

A few moments later, Mr. Weasley entered the foyer of the dirty and worn-down house, indicating to Harry it was time. Nodding, Harry said a last goodbye to his friends, taking in Hermione's worried frown and Ron's attempt to be brave and positive, thanking them both for their friendship, and promising to see them once again when this was all over. For now, he was bound for the Ministry and his destiny.

* * *

Later, Harry could only say he could not remember much of the journey to the Ministry building on that fateful day. He could vaguely recall heading down the steps of the old house to a car waiting out front and stepping into said vehicle, but then he could recall nothing until they had arrived at the old phone booth which provided the entrance to the Ministry itself. Had he been thinking clearly of what was happening at the time, he would have wondered why they were going through the bother of driving in one of the Ministry's cars to the trial rather than using the Floo system. He was told later that though it would have been possible for Mr. Weasley as an employee of the Ministry to bring him in that way, it was normal procedure for visitors to enter via the phone booth. That, and the desire to spare Harry due to his well-known aversion to Floo travel, prompted the longer journey by car. It also had the added benefit of allowing him to order his thoughts. On this day, none of this crossed Harry's mind.

No, his mind was engaged in thoughts of what might happen and his rebellious subconscious insisted on replaying all the possible scenarios of what a conviction could mean to him, real or imagined. And although Harry had thought somewhat morosely that very morning just how much trouble he had had, not only since his reentry into this world but also throughout his whole life because of its very existence, he realized that he now thought of himself—identified himself—by his status as a wizard. Now, with the reality of being forcibly removed and bound against ever doing magic again, he knew he had no desire to leave this world, regardless of the trouble it posed to him or the dangers it represented. It was now his life—he wanted nothing more than to be allowed to continue to live it.

Besides, he could not leave Ron and Hermione behind—their friendship and trust meant too much to him to leave them in a world which could soon be dominated by a megalomaniac. Voldemort had seen fit to target him all his life and to Harry that meant the dark wizard believed Harry to be a threat to his vision. If he _was_ such a threat, Harry was determined to be as much of a thorn in Voldemort's side as he possibly could. This in turn strengthened his resolve to meet Fudge head on and challenge him—he would not be meek and vulnerable before the Minister. No, Fudge would not find a pliable child in Harry Potter.

Such thoughts were not to be dwelt upon, however, as after a short journey through the streets of London, they arrived at the entrance to the Ministry and had soon entered the building by its somewhat unorthodox entrance.

Unfortunately for Harry, who would have preferred a low-key arrival and journey to the courtroom, the Ministry atrium was overflowing that day, partially because it was a regular business day for the wizarding government, but also, he suspected, because of the sensational aspect of the trial to be held. Upon entering the atrium, the noise level in the crowded room suddenly decreased, and countless heads swiveled in his direction, almost as one, a fanciful part of him whispered. Then the soft whispering began, and he saw more than one gesture in his direction. The atmosphere was difficult for the young man to make out, and although the crowd in general did not seem overly hostile, they were not especially friendly either.

He suspected the large crowd had something to do with the nature of the coming trial. Harry had not been idle during the past week—he had done some research on the matter (with Hermione's judicious assistance) and had learned that no one who had been charged with underage use of magic had ever been tried in an open court before the entire Wizengamot. No, this was Fudge's big chance to humble and neutralize the famous Boy-Who-Lived while setting himself up as the sole voice of reason and champion of the people. Harry only wanted to see the bastard go up against Voldemort himself; the Minister would not last more than a few moments against the dark wizard before facing utter defeat, or worse.

Following his best friend's father, Harry made his way to the stairs which would take them down to the tenth level and the courtroom, all the while his cheeks flaming due to the unwanted attention. It was crystal clear to him—he was big news in the wizarding world, and his trial was drawing a lot of interest. He sensed that it was up to him to take the initiative and show himself in the best possible light. If he could show himself to be the hero these people all hoped him to be—especially with Voldemort's recent return—he suspected the atmosphere of the recently-exited atrium would change into a more positive one for him. Perhaps the idiot Fudge could even be put on the defensive for a change. One could only hope.

Of course, this presupposed Harry could devise something which would not only save his hide, but also prove sufficiently inspiring to capture the imagination of the masses. Unfortunately, he would not be flying on his broom being pursued by an angry dragon, or fighting a massive basilisk—this fight would have to be won with words. He wished Hermione were here; she was the one with the gift for words.

They emerged from the stairwell and made their way down the long hall. Their progress down the hall went largely unnoticed by Harry, intent as he was on his own problems. At length, as they progressed toward Harry's destiny, he noticed a tall, austere sort of man who was regarding them intently as they made their way toward the courtroom. As they drew near, he approached them, a kindly expression coming over his face.

"Ah, Mr. Potter, I presume."

Although Harry was unsurprised the man seemed to know him (was there anyone who did not after all?), everyone else had been content to do no more than watch from a distance and whisper. In his experience, there were many Lockharts in the world—those who wished to know him for their own purposes and agendas.

Deciding it was better to be distant for the moment, he responded cautiously. "Yes? Can I help you?"

The man chuckled. "No, young Harry, I just thought I would say hello before you enter the courtroom."

Harry looked past the man at the open door, leading to courtroom number ten, which loomed in the distance. It seemed to mock him, beckoning him toward his destiny and sudden doom—taunting him with his own fears.

Shaking off his fanciful thoughts, Harry focused his attention back on the newcomer, who was even now watching him with an expression of sympathy.

"It is a little overwhelming, is it not?"

For the first time, Harry noticed the slight accent in the man's speech—it was not blatant, nor did it make him difficult to understand. Although he had no knowledge of this man—as Arthur did not, it appeared, given his curious reaction to the man and his lack of greeting—he was the type that inspired confidence and exuded competence.

"Just a little…" Harry finally muttered in response.

The man nodded sagely. "Although it seems bleak, just remember to keep your head up. We can't necessarily pick our circumstances, but we can choose the manner in which we react and conduct ourselves. Sometimes, that is more important in the long run. Our behavior in trying circumstances is a better indicator of our character than when we are in our comfort zone. Remember that as you stand in front of these fops."

His last words were spoken with a wry smile and a gesture toward Minister Fudge, who was making his way into the courtroom.

Grateful for the kind words, Harry nodded and regarded the mysterious man. "I'm sorry, sir, but do I know you?"

"No, although I do know of you." At Harry's grimace, he once again chuckled and slapped Harry on the shoulder. "I guess that's not exactly a surprise, now is it? Remember, you have people who are on your side—those who will fight for you. Don't let them intimidate and try to isolate you."

Harry nodded, thinking about what the man had told him. He knew he had good friends—Hermione and Ron were the best, Dumbledore and the other professors had always looked out for him, and it was amazing how close he and Sirius had become in such a short time. Somehow he would get through the day and become stronger for it.

Thank you, Mr.…"

"Oh, don't worry about me, Harry," the man responded. "I'm certain we will see more of one another in the very near future."

With that, Harry found his hand firmly shaken, after which the man departed, entering a door to the side of the main entrance to the courtroom. He looked askance at Mr. Weasley and noted a slightly bemused expression on the other man's face. As this was somewhat normal for his best friend's father, Harry simply shook his head, assuming Mr. Weasley had no more idea of the new acquaintance's identity than Harry did.

Gathering himself, Harry and his escort crossed the final distance to the courtroom entrance and paused before the open door.

"Harry," Mr. Weasley began, "you know we're all behind you. Don't worry about a thing."

Thanking his host for his assistance, Harry took at deep breath and entered the courtroom.

He found himself in a semi-circular room, with a floor that was roughly the size of the Gryffindor common room at Hogwarts. On three sides, benches rose up along the walls approximately ten levels high; to his back, a raised gallery stood above the entrance to the courtroom. The benches along the walls were filled with members of the Wizengamot, most of whom were stern-looking elderly witches and wizards. Although it was difficult to get a true reading of the mood of the legislative body, Harry could tell that many were not happy to be there—whether that was due to indifference, disapproval of Fudge's actions, or enmity to himself, he could not tell. Turning back in the direction from which he had just entered Harry gazed up at the gallery, which was packed with onlookers. Among those was the forbidding presence of Lucius Malfoy, who watched him with an arrogant smirk on his face. Determined to avoid the father of his most hated rival, Harry allowed his gaze to wander over the gallery and he caught the eye of the man he had just met outside the courtroom, who gave him a cheery salute. Grinning in response, he turned back to Minister Fudge, who was now regarding him with an expression of fury and the utmost disdain.

"Please take a seat, Mr. Potter," he said between clenched teeth, indicating the hard wooden chair which stood in the center of the room, facing away from the door. "We are ready to begin these proceedings."

Suddenly worried, Harry peered about the room, looking for the telltale garish robes of his Headmaster. Not seeing him among the members of the Wizengamot, he looked up at the Minister, who was regarding him impatiently.

"Excuse me, Minister—I had understood Headmaster Dumbledore was to be here."

Fudge's face lit up with a cruel, triumphant smile. "It seems your Headmaster has not seen fit to bother himself with the deeds of a mere student. In cases of such contempt being shown to the Wizengamot, we must continue in his absence."

Shivering at the vindictive glee which was fairly dripping from the Minister's voice, Harry glanced back at the door and then at the face of his supporter, who regarded him steadily, lending him courage and the belief that all would be well. Taking a deep breath, Harry gathered his determination and sat in the hard chair, his back straight and his head held high. He would show Fudge that he was not about to be intimidated.

A feral grin met his response, as restraints suddenly shot out of the arms and legs of the chair, binding him and holding him immobile. The Minister smirked in triumph at his shock, as he called the Wizengamot to order.

"Order in the courtroom!" he shouted, banging his gavel on the desk at which he sat.

As the room quieted, he glanced around the room and spoke again. "I call this trial of underage magic use for one Harry James Potter into session." He sneered at Harry as he continued. "The defendant is accused of using magic in the presence of Muggles and in violation of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. The truth of this charge, as well as the lies of said defendant, shall be brought to light and shall be acted upon accordingly."

"Is that so, Cornelius?" a voice rang out from behind Harry.

Harry twisted his head as far as he was able due to the restraints and witnessed the dramatic entrance of his Headmaster, grinning as the amused twinkling of Dumbledore's eyes was directed at him. The grandfatherly old man looked his immaculate best today, from his long flowing gray robes to his long white beard, which had been combed and tied down with his usual gold chain. Although his eyes twinkled when he looked at his young charge, Harry could tell the Headmaster was not amused—he fairly radiated power and his gaze on the assembled Wizengamot members was not only stern, but also disapproving in the extreme.

Walking up to Harry's chair, he took his position along his side and continued. "I suppose I should not be surprised the location and time of this… _hearing_ was changed without prior notice." His harsh tone left no doubt as to his opinion of the trial. "If one did not know better, Minister, one would think it was deliberately done to deprive Mr. Potter of his right to defend himself before this noble body."

Fudge's eyes tightened momentarily before he sniffed in disdain. "The Wizengamot can hardly be held responsible if you cannot take the trouble to keep up with the doings of the body you lead, Dumbledore."

Raising one eyebrow, Dumbledore's gaze bored into the Minister, making him squirm slightly in his seat. "The memo must have gone _missing_, Minister. If it were not for some conscientious member of this body, Mr. Potter and I may not have heard of this until after a decision had been rendered. Surely you would not want to be seen as a Minister who presided over a miscarriage of justice for one of your most famous subjects."

Fudge looked on, his face slightly pale at the implications of Dumbledore's speech, while there was an uncomfortable silence as the Wizengamot digested all which had not been said by their leader.

"Be that as it may," Dumbledore continued, "regardless of my opinion of this forum, here we are. I suggest we conclude this farce as quickly as may be so we can all get on with matters which are far more important. As I will be representing Mr. Potter, I yield the floor to you, Minister."

Inside, Harry was elated over the implied dressing down his Headmaster had just given the Minister, although he tried not to let it show on his face. Harry was not a student of wizarding law—far from it—but he knew he was being singled out by a Minister who had refused to see reason and had publicly called him a liar following his testimony after the third task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. What Dumbledore had said was not only fair, but also just in the context of any wizarding law Harry knew.

"Quite," Fudge responded at length.

The Minister signaled for the prosecution to begin their case, their star witness being the assistant with whom Harry had had communication with twice previously: Mafalda Hopkirk. Harry listened as Fudge prompted her with the information to build the case against him, asking questions to draw out what he obviously considered to be the pertinent facts. He watched and listened carefully, noting the gleeful glances the Minister kept directing at him. Ms. Hopkirk, by contrast, appeared to have nothing against either Harry or Dumbledore; she merely presented the facts of the case as she saw them, embellishing little and only elaborating when prompted directly by the Minister or one of the Wizengamot members. The facts were simple and straightforward: on the morning of August 2, the Ministry tracking devices had detected a large surge of magic which had been traced to Harry's wand. Ms. Hopkirk had initiated standard procedures and dispatched a letter to his residence, informing him of his expulsion from Hogwarts and the actions to be taken by the Ministry in response. However, the order was soon rescinded when Albus Dumbledore had arrived at the Ministry and convinced them to hold a hearing to determine his fate.

This final piece of information had Fudge smirking down at Harry, causing Harry to squirm in his chair.

"Ms. Hopkirk," Fudge began after she had finished her report, "I take it this is not the first time Mr. Potter has used magic improperly?"

"No, Minister. Mr. Potter has been detected using magic on two separate occasions outside of Hogwarts since he began attending."

"There!" Fudge thundered. "The Wizengamot can see the pattern of disobedience and contempt for the laws of our world—contempt which puts us all in danger of discovery by the Muggles! Can anyone possibly say anything in Mr. Potter's defense?"

"Minister, I believe Mr. Potter should be allowed to respond in his defense."

Fudge's beady eyes fixed on Dumbledore, and an unpleasant sneer came over his face. "Ah, yes—we come to the crux of the matter. The _esteemed_ Headmaster of our most distinguished school, who has himself shown a pattern of favoritism for Mr. Potter. Tell the Wizengamot, Headmaster, why it is, that as an official member of this body, you felt necessary to intervene on Mr. Potter's behalf. Has his stay at Hogwarts been similarly rife with favoritism from your office?"

His insinuation was not lost on the members of the Wizengamot. Harry witnessed dark, contemplative looks on the faces of many watching Wizengamot members. It was a strike, clearly designed to focus attention on his relationship with the Headmaster, rather than the crime being discussed. Dumbledore chose to ignore the insinuation.

"Tell me, Ms. Hopkirk," Dumbledore stated—the woman had been standing quietly, waiting to be addressed or dismissed. "How is it that a letter was dispatched to Mr. Potter's residence so quickly? Standard procedure states that a first offense generates a warning letter immediately, but a second offense requires a review before any response is made."

"Dumbledore, I hardly think this is—"

"But it _is _relevant, Minister. After all, the reason for this forum is to make certain Mr. Potter is treated the same as any other witch or wizard, and subject to the appropriate action according to our laws. You will answer the question, Ms. Hopkirk."

Her eyes darted to those of the Minister, who was staring at her, his eyes narrowed. Sighing, she glanced back at Dumbledore and responded. "Minister Fudge sent a memo instructing prompt action if Mr. Potter were to be detected using magic."

"Only Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, sir."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and peered back at the Minister, who was now looking distinctly uncomfortable. He appeared ready to angrily interrupt the conversation when Dumbledore spoke again.

"In answer to your previous question, Minister, I have always acted in the best interests of those under my charge. I will continue to do so to ensure the safety and well-being of my students. I would do the same for any who I feel are being unfairly singled out—I had thought you already understood this, Minister."

Although Harry did not understand the reference, the tightening of the Minister's eyes told him that he, at least, understood and was not pleased.

"Really, Dumbledore," Fudge snarled in reply, his momentary setback forgotten, "you should cease involving yourself in lost causes such as this—it may eventually damage the _mystique_ of your reputation. Regardless of anything I or anyone else in the government have done in this case, the facts are relevant and irrefutable, as is the punishment."

"Mr. Potter is deserving of the opportunity to respond to his accusers, not only as is his right, but also due to the seriousness of the consequences. Do _you_, Minister, believe he should be summarily convicted without his explanation, or do you wish to perpetuate the mistakes of the past and convict another innocent man by denying his rights?"

The Minister was practically snarling by this time. "Fine, Dumbledore—make your case! How does Mr. Potter think he can defend his actions in this?"

"Harry? Would you like to respond?"

Feeling the weight of the entire Wizengamot bearing down on him, Harry, nevertheless, screwed up his courage and looked Fudge right in the eyes. "We were attacked by Dementors, sir."

"Dementors, Minister!" Dumbledore boomed. "Mr. Potter was set upon by Dementors on the morning in question. That is what accounts for his use of magic."

"Dementors?" Fudge shrieked. "Are you claiming that a fourth-year student was able to cast a Patronus charm to drive away Dementors? Preposterous!"

Having sat there quietly watching Dumbledore defend him, Harry was struck by the thought that Fudge did not want him to be acquitted—a fact that he knew intellectually. But having it stare him in the face brought the fact into harsh focus.

"I've been able to cast the Patronus charm since my third year!"

"Boy, the Patronus charm is a post-NEWT level spell which can be successfully cast by few in our society. You expect us to believe that you, a mere lad of fifteen, can do what most adults cannot?"

"Give me my wand and let me loose, and I'll show you," Harry snapped in response.

The Minister's eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything further, he was interrupted. A short, pudgy woman, wearing a shade of lurid pink under her dark Wizengamot robes, had raised her hand. "Hem, hem," she cleared her throat before continuing, "I believe the point of whether Mr. Potter can cast a Patronus is academic. After all, the Dementors are under the control of the Ministry and therefore cannot have been in Little Whinging."

Harry immediately disliked the ugly woman—she spoke in a sugary sweet voice, while she simpered and smirked at the entire gathering. He sensed it was nothing more than an act.

"There you are, Mr. Potter—straight from the Undersecretary. What do you say to that?"

"The Dementors were there—I saw them. Mrs. Figg and my cousin Dudley were there as well."

"Muggles," Fudge spat with derision. "Convenient, don't you think, that your only witnesses cannot actually _see_ Dementors?"

"The effects of a Dementor's presence are well known, Minister," Dumbledore responded. "Simple questioning of the witnesses will establish whether they were affected."

"Rubbish! Your proposed questioning would be nothing more than circumstantial at best. We have proof through the Ministry recording devices of Mr. Potter's use of magic and nothing but his word of the existence of these Dementors to prove otherwise. Why would Dementors be after you, Potter, so far away from Azkaban?"

"I don't know, Minister," Harry responded, the defiance and contempt he felt for the small-minded little man showing in his voice. "I have been attacked by Dementors before, as you well know, when _you_ decided to station them at Hogwarts in my third year. Maybe they were able to escape somehow, or maybe one of Voldemort's supporters set them on me."

A feral grin lit up the Minister's face even as a wave of gasps at hearing the dark lord's name spoken rippled through the chamber. "Ah, so now we come to the heart of the matter—Mr. Potter's insistence on the reappearance of the Dark Lord. Tell me, Potter, why you are so insistent on proclaiming the impossible? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been dead these past fourteen years after all… You were there, were you not?"

Harry sat up as straight as he could manage and glared at the Minister. "I'm telling you he's back because it's the truth."

"And I'm telling you it's impossible!" Fudge yelled in response. "Do you think you are some sort of god, that you can return a man dead for over a decade to the land of the living?"

"I did not bring him back, Minister. He was brought back by Peter Pettigrew, who used a dark ritual to return his former master."

"Peter Pettigrew! Another man dead since you were a child! Are there no end to your lies?"

"Minister, it is known that there are ways to tether one's existence to this earth—and ways of bringing one who has accomplished this back. As you well know, I have never believed Voldemort to be gone and given his fear of death and intense self interest, I do not think this belief is unreasonable—he is out there, and now he has been re-embodied, and it is foolishness not to act to protect your people and our very society."

Fudge glared at Dumbledore in disgust. "And yet, you have no proof of these claims other than the word of a young, glory-seeking upstart who seems intent on causing panic in our world."

"The proof exists if you would only look at it!"

"Enough!" Fudge shouted. "I will not listen to the lies of this young man, nor to your attempt to cause panic in these halls! Mr. Potter is a spoiled, indulged little brat who has been toeing your line for far too long, Dumbledore, and I mean to see his lies brought to an end for the good of our society."

Leaning back in his chair, Fudge smirked at the Headmaster. "I have another theory of Mr. Potter's… _experiences. _He is attempting to sow fear and discord because his star has waned since he returned to our world—he wishes to recreate his past celebrity and is using his only claim to fame to do so by invoking the name of our greatest enemy. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead, Mr. Potter. You will receive no further adulation from this society for an accident which happened when you were a mere baby!"

"If he is dead, never to return, then why do you fear to speak his name?"

Dumbledore's question echoed out over the room, causing some to glance at the Minister with a certain speculation, while still others looked affronted that anyone would have the audacity to suggest they actually use the dark lord's name. Harry took stock of their reactions, trying to commit them to memory—these were the ones who were, at the very least, tacit supporters of Voldemort, if not actual Death Eaters.

"Surely the Minister cannot be afraid of a dead man," Dumbledore continued, causing a swell of noise to break out over the Wizengamot, not to mention a certain amount of snickering. A point had been clearly scored by the Headmaster.

Finally a sputtering Fudge regained control of his voice. "It matters little what you call him, Dumbledore," he spat. "The man is dead, and regardless of what Mr. Potter _thinks_ he saw, he cannot have seen the dark lord. He is obviously lying."

"I'll take Veritaserum!" Harry yelled desperately.

"What?"

"Give me Veritaserum—that will show you I'm telling the truth."

"An excellent suggestion, Minister," Dumbledore chimed in smoothly. "Veritaserum will prove Mr. Potter's claims without a doubt."

"Veritaserum is a valuable substance," Umbridge interrupted in her sickening voice, while Fudge sputtered. "We don't just use it on anyone with a random claim—your case does not qualify, Mr. Potter."

"On the contrary—" Dumbledore began, but was interrupted by a now-furious Fudge.

"Bollocks! We will listen to no more of this. It is time for the Wizengamot to deliberate and determine the results of this hearing."

Harry was uncertain how it would play out—Dumbledore had obviously scored significant points with the Wizengamot, but would it be enough? Harry had glanced up at the Headmaster, fearful of the outcome, when he heard a strong voice from the gallery.

* * *

By this time, Jean-Sebastian had heard enough—the British Minister was intent on petulantly getting his way and was clearly not interested in the truth. It was time to repay Sirius's trust in him and cast the die which would change the lives of his family.

"Enough, Minister!"

Ignoring the look of astonishment on the face of the British Minister, Jean-Sebastian rose from his chair and vaulted the bar which separated the spectator gallery from the rest of the amphitheater. He quickly strode down the stairs to the floor, and moved toward the detested chair in which the young man he had come to help still sat regarding him, a look of shock, mingled with hope, adorning his features.

Arriving in the middle of the floor, Jean-Sebastian scowled at the chair which held Harry captive and flicked his wrist, releasing his bonds. Uncertainly, Harry glanced up at his benefactor, grinning tentatively in response to the welcoming smile Jean-Sebastian gave him.

"Stand up and face your accusers, Harry. That chair was designed to remove a person's free will and dignity, and I will not have you spend any further time in it."

Jean-Sebastian just had enough time to exchange a glance, accompanied by a raised eyebrow, with the Headmaster before Fudge finally recovered. His voice rang out through the courtroom.

"Ambassador! What is the meaning of this?"

Glaring at the nearly apoplectic Minister, Jean-Sebastian helped a stunned-looking Harry Potter to his feet before turning to address the young man's accusers.

"This hearing is a farce, Minister. I will not allow you to continue with this character assassination, this… kangaroo court any longer. You have no interest in knowing the truth of Harry's actions, only in pushing your agenda of denial and your destructive and narrow-minded Pureblood bigotry. This young man will not be sacrificed to further your career!"

"How dare you! By what authority do you interrupt our proceedings?"

"By the authority of the ICW!"

His statement apparently caught Fudge off guard, as the man's tongue was stilled momentarily, allowing Jean-Sebastian to continue his assault.

"With the assistance of the Supreme Mugwump," he nodded in Dumbledore's direction, "an emergency session of the ICW was convened this morning. With an overwhelming majority, the ICW has voted to commend young Harry Potter for his actions, not only during the attack on him and his cousin, but also during the recently completed tournament."

"And what authority does the ICW have here in England?" Fudge sneered in response.

But though the Minister attempted to appear confident and unmoved by the news, Jean-Sebastian could tell his words were a little less forceful, his manner slightly less secure. The approval and recommendation of the ICW was no small matter, even to the most powerful among them—to fall afoul of the international wizarding body was not without political and personal risk, as many had found to their detriment.

"Obviously, no _legal_ authority," Jean-Sebastian responded, twisting the knife slightly. "My dear Minister Fudge, you must study international wizarding law further if you are concerned about that."

The jibe did not go unnoticed and Fudge scowled in response. The members of the Wizengamot reacted differently, as those in direct opposition could be seen to be smirking in his direction, while others appeared to have varying looks of contemplation, understanding, and even apprehension.

"The ICW cannot intervene _directly_ in an affair which is so obviously an internal British matter," he continued, making certain the Minister and his entire Wizengamot understood exactly what he was saying. "However, young Mr. Potter is a person of interest to the wizarding world as a whole, not only for surviving an attack by one of the most feared dark lords of any age, but also because of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, among his other exploits. Mr. Potter, it appears your adventures have gained you much notoriety and fame beyond the boundaries of England, above and beyond what happened when he attacked you all those years ago. The offers of refuge came from many different countries, including my own."

Jean-Sebastian almost laughed at Harry's look of incomprehension and consternation—he was obviously a private young man who did not appreciate his fame. Deciding he would have to watch closely—Harry appeared as if he did not fully understand what was happening, and if that was the case, he would need to be educated, not only in the ways of the wizarding world, but also in how the international world worked—Jean-Sebastian turned his attention back to Fudge, curious to see how the Minister would react to the blows his case had taken that morning.

The Minister was glaring ferociously down at the accused, no doubt trying to determine how to resurrect his case. Jean-Sebastian stared back at the Minister, allowing the gleam of dislike and disgust to enter his eyes. Fudge's eyes narrowed in response—it was obvious to Jean-Sebastian that he had made himself an implacable (although he expected somewhat ineffectual) enemy this day. Yet, everything he had heard about Harry and the Dark Lord's unhealthy interest in the young man told him it was worth it. Harry Potter would be a leader in the fight against Voldemort—Jean-Sebastian was certain of it.

"The ICW is irrelevant!" Fudge finally responded, making one last gasp to save his case. "Mr. Potter has broken the law—_international law_ I might add—and we are duty-bound as a society to ensure the secrecy of our world is upheld."

"Then instruct your Aurors to prepare the Veritaserum," Jean-Sebastian responded. "Mr. Potter has already agreed to its use."

It was the short, pudgy, _pink_ woman who responded. "The use of Veritaserum—"

"—is condoned in the use of _all_ trials to determine the truthfulness of the accused, as long as the Wizengamot condones its use. Really, Madam, I should think that as a member of this august body, you would understand the laws of your own country."

She visibly bristled at his comments, causing Jean-Sebastian to wonder why she was so adamant in her support of Fudge in this matter. It would bear looking into.

"The matter is still clear!" Her sickeningly sweet voice now held a hint of shrillness. "The statute was broken, and Mr. Potter has admitted to it."

"If I may," Dumbledore intervened for the first time since Jean-Sebastian had spoken, "there is a reason for the term 'reasonable' in the statute. Surely defending himself against Dementors would be considered justified to any right-minded wizard or witch. The use of Veritaserum would verify the presence of Dementors on that morning."

"Unless he's delusional!" Fudge snapped, finally finding his voice again.

"Then the testimonies of the witnesses will also be necessary," Dumbledore responded with aplomb. "Unless you feel they were _all_ delusional for some inexplicable reason."

His sarcasm was not lost on the members of the Wizengamot. Jean-Sebastian could almost feel the tide of opinion turning against the Minister and decided it was time to finish the debate.

"Minister, with what I have heard this morning, it would almost appear to me as though you hold a personal vendetta against this young man, although I must admit to being at a loss to understand your reason. I have had only one brief conversation with Mr. Potter, yet I can state without reservation that he seems like a nice, bright lad, one who has experienced hardship in his life due to no fault of his own. Given his stature as hero to the British wizarding people, do you really want to go down as the Minister who has driven one of your most famous heroes away from England forever? How could your people have possibly turned on Harry so quickly? Has the English wizarding world even been told the truth about Mr. Potter?"

_ That_ more than anything else received Fudge's—and the entire Wizengamot's—attention. Jean-Sebastian was aware that Fudge could have portrayed Harry in any manner he pleased and gotten away with it, as long as he controlled the flow of information and kept public opinion firmly on his side. Now, with his arguments in ruins, and his bias and personal grudge against the young boy all but proven in the aftermath of these proceedings—which were being followed across the British Wizarding Wireless by most of the country, unless Jean-Sebastian missed his guess—it would be political suicide for Fudge to continue to push for conviction and punishment.

Jean-Sebastian's grin was practically predatory. "Ah, I see that has gotten your attention. But be that as it may, I will not allow the exploitation of young Harry Potter to continue any longer."

The looks of confusion and apprehension on more than one face would be almost comical if Jean-Sebastian was not so deadly serious.

"Because the English wizarding world cannot be trusted with Mr. Potter's welfare, I fear I must take steps to ensure he is never again treated in this manner. I have recently become aware of the existence of a document signed by my father and Mr. Potter's grandfather more than fifty years ago, a document which allows me to be of some use to the young man. As I have the agreement of his guardian, by the ancient laws of magic I am hereby invoking a marriage contract between Mr. Potter and my eldest daughter. So I say it, so will it be!"

* * *

_Updated 02/06/2013  
_


	3. Chapter 2 – The Marriage Contract

**Chapter 2 – The Marriage Contract**

The blunt declaration caused the courtroom to descend into stunned silence.

Whether the rest of the courtroom was simply surprised, shocked into silence by the brashness of the declaration, or aghast at the possibility of seeing their "national hero" (a title which still had the power to cause Harry to shake his head in disbelief, given the shots he had absorbed from those same people) betrothed to a foreign witch, it was impossible to say. Although he certainly caught the expressions of the rest of the room, Harry was, understandably, concerned with his own questions.

How could this have happened? What did this stranger mean by claiming a marriage contract to some witch he had never met? Were such archaic traditions still followed in the magical world?

To this last question, Harry was forced to admit, somewhat ruefully, that the possibility for such antiquated traditions were not only possible, but given the things he had seen and experienced since he had discovered the magical world, he was not surprised to learn they still existed.

Harry Potter had never given much thought to his future and—other than a few idle hours, wiled away in which he had indulged himself in the contemplation of the various females of his acquaintance—had certainly never given serious consideration to the question of who would ultimately become Mrs. Potter. The thought of marriage not only had never really occurred to him, but it was also something which consciously or not, he had considered unappealing early in his life, no doubt largely due to the only example he had ever witnessed: the married life of his aunt and uncle. They had always, in his memory, been largely argumentative, and he could never remember any instances of spousal felicity or shows of affection. In fact, other than their shared propensity toward making him feel worthless and consigning him to a miserable existence, they had never actually shown any common goals or interests, making him wonder why they had married in the first place.

His only other example was slightly better in execution, as the Weasley parents were at least friendly with each other and focused on their family and the importance of that family in their lives. It was a different portrait to be certain, but hardly a more reassuring one to Harry's mind—after all, although they were certainly more harmonious than his aunt and uncle, it was also obvious who was in charge of the relationship. Harry hesitated at labeling Mrs. Weasley as loud and overbearing—she had been remarkably kind toward him in the time he had known her—but he knew she was a strong-willed woman, used to getting her own way, whereas her husband was generally content to coast along, allowing her to put herself forward, while he allowed himself to slip into more of a support role. Harry was very fond of the Weasleys—he was simply not excited about emulating their relationship.

So with Harry's examples of marital felicity, it was hardly to be wondered that young Harry was not enamored of the thought of marriage but had also—perhaps subconsciously—wondered if finding a wife was even worth it at all.

And now he was all but engaged to be married, without his consent… and to some witch he had never met. And furthermore, he did not even know her name! How was he supposed to feel when confronted with such a situation? Was there any way out of it? Was this man another fortune seeker, bent on a connection with the infamous Boy-Who-Lived? Or was he playing some other game?

Then again, this stranger must have some reason for not only agreeing to enact such a scheme (with Sirius's help no less!) but also accepting this marriage contract, given Harry's well-documented troubles with the aforementioned insane and powerful wizard. A fortune seeker would have to be unbalanced to consider an alliance in the face of such danger.

Harry did not know what to think.

Just as the inevitable pandemonium began, Harry noticed the stranger peering at him with a kindly expression on his face; the action worked to reassure Harry somewhat that—whatever the man's reasoning was for this interference—his reasons for revealing this marriage contract were not intended to be detrimental to Harry's future. Given all that was going on in his life, the thought was comforting. Then again, appearances could be deceiving.

"Is anything wrong, Harry?" the man asked in a quiet voice, ignoring the rising noise around them.

"Marriage contract?" Harry managed to squeak out.

Jean-Sebastian shrugged. "Not exactly common any longer, but certainly not out of the ordinary either. Surely you had some indication such a thing was possible."

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry said with a shake of his head, "I didn't know. I've been raised by Muggles, and sometimes I'm still surprised by some of the old-fashioned things in the wizarding world…"

Frowning at Harry's comment, Jean-Sebastian stared at him in deep contemplation, causing Harry to become self-conscious. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, the nervous energy escaping despite his best efforts to keep it controlled.

"It's all right, Harry," Jean-Sebastian responded, his tone soothing and a smile once more on his face. "I was not aware of your lack of knowledge. We will have to work on your education once we are away from this place."

"Is there any way out of it?" Harry blurted, realizing immediately it was the wrong thing to say when a dark expression came over Jean-Sebastian's face.

"I'm sorry," Harry said somewhat nervously, not wanting to offend his benefactor. "This is just all so… new to me. I mean… I've never thought…"

"I don't even _know_ your daughter," he finished, somewhat lamely, after a short pause.

Jean-Sebastian chuckled quietly, his amusement immediately replacing his momentary displeasure. "Do not worry; I am not offended. I can see we have much to discuss, my young friend, and you have much to learn."

At Harry's nod of agreement, Jean-Sebastian reached out and grasped his shoulder, squeezing it slightly in a comforting gesture. "As for not knowing my daughter, I assure you, she is not unknown to you."

Harry regarded him uncertainly, wondering who he could possibly mean.

"My apologies, young Mr. Potter; allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jean-Sebastian Delacour, French Ambassador to the International Confederation of Wizards. This marriage contract engages you to my daughter, Fleur, with whom I believe you are acquainted through the Tri-Wizard Tournament last year at Hogwarts."

"ORDER!"

At that moment they were interrupted by Minister Fudge, who was banging his gavel on the desk in front of him, yelling for the Wizengamot to come to order. But Harry, shocked as he was by the suddenly revealed identity of his mysterious benefactor and his newly betrothed, heard none of it.

_ Fleur Delacour? Is that who I'm engaged to?_

Thoughts whirled around in his head, flitting from images of a beautiful young woman entering the great hall of Hogwarts for the first time and drawing the eyes of every young man (and many not so young) to a bedraggled Fleur freshly emerged from the cold of the lake, hugging him tightly in thanks for rescuing her sister._ That_ was who he was now tied to by this contract?

Unable to wrap his head around the thought, Harry forced himself to calm and think about the situation rationally. He considered his almost nonexistent acquaintance with the young French Veela. He had thought about asking Fleur to the Yule Ball the previous year during the tournament, but who had not? Daydreams of appearing at the event on the arm of the most beautiful young girl any of them had ever seen had filled the fantasies of most of the boys at his school. But whereas Ron had forgotten she was far above any of them, Harry had confined his thoughts to the realm of fantasy, never allowing himself to consider that she might actually say yes.

Still… now that he thought about it, although he still considered her far above him in terms of beauty and desirability, the example of Ron was certainly not one which fit the situation. After all, as the story went, Ron had blurted his request in the middle of a crowded room and then run off in fear—to the best of Harry's knowledge, she had never actually made a response. It was possible, however unlikely, that she might have accepted Ron's proposal. After all, he had no knowledge of when Roger Davies had actually asked her to the ball, but if her expression during the event had been any indication, his continual fawning on her had likely been aggravating… and certainly not much worse than she would have experienced with Ron.

Which brought another thought to his consciousness—did he have any real indication that _she_ actually thought herself above those around her? She had been somewhat cold and distant when she had first appeared at the school, and she had acted snooty when he had appeared in the anteroom after the goblet incident, but that was all he had to base his thoughts of her arrogance upon. After all, people at his school thought him to be a spoiled pampered prince, glory seeker, and (since the incident in the graveyard) a delusional liar, something he liked to think was not true, although certain events in his past had led him to question his own sanity on occasion. Was her situation any different from his? Perhaps the popular perception of Miss Delacour was not the reality. He would have to actually speak to her himself and get to know her before making any judgments, something which, he admitted to himself, he had not done in the past.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Harry made an effort to concentrate more on what was occurring around him.

"You really have no choice, Minister," Jean-Sebastian was saying, glaring at the Minister through narrowed eyes. "International law in this instance is very clear—since both Mr. Potter's guardian and I have agreed on the execution of the marriage contract, it is in force, regardless of the wishes of the British Ministry."

An incoherent sputtering issued from Fudge's mouth, causing Jean-Sebastian to shake his head in response and Harry to wonder at the man who had managed to render the loquacious Minister speechless.

"But you can't…" Fudge finally got out through his rage and indignation. "We can't have one of our most famous citizens married to a… a… _foreigner!_"

"This same citizen you were prepared to lynch without bothering to learn the truth?"

Fudge could have nothing to say to that statement.

"And Minister, I will assume you have _no other_ objections to my daughter's suitability as the wife to Mr. Potter."

This last was said with a hard core of steel evident in Jean-Sebastian's voice, and although Harry did not quite understand the reference, it was not lost on Fudge or the rest of the Wizengamot. There were more than a few scowls, thoughtful looks, and nods of approval from the assembled, giving Harry no further clue as to what was being discussed.

"As I said, regardless of the British Ministry's position on the subject, Mr. Potter is now legally and magically bound by contract, agreed to by our ancestors and enacted by myself and his guardian, to marry my daughter. I suggest you become used to that fact, as it will not change."

Fudge appeared as though he wished to make further objections, but Jean-Sebastian did not allow it, instead speaking right over the Minister's incoherent stammering. "In addition, as Harry is still underage, I will be assuming his guardianship until he either becomes of age, or his true guardian steps forward to resume his position."

"Again, this is non-negotiable and well within the bounds of the law," he continued when it looked like Fudge was about to object yet again. "Of course, if the English wizarding government is hell bent on expelling Mr. Potter from Hogwarts, I am certain a place can be found for him at Beauxbatons—after all, his betrothed still attends the premier French school, and I'm certain they would be happy to accept such a high profile addition to their student roster."

For a moment, Harry almost thought Fudge's eyes would pop out of their sockets as he stared at Jean-Sebastian. Although not especially versed in the art of politics, even Harry understood this reference—his arguments in shambles politically, Fudge had no choice but to back away from his stance. Further, if he was perceived as the reason a well-known and almost revered citizen was driven from Hogwarts, his political career would be ruined. Harry could almost see Fudge's political life flashing before his eyes, causing his lips to rise in sardonic amusement. Harry had certainly never considered politics to be an enjoyable or even interesting profession, but at that moment he had to admit that the thrill of shredding the enemy's arguments and causing him to retreat in disarray was strangely appealing.

"I assure you, ambassador, enrolling Mr. Potter in Beauxbatons will be unnecessary," an old, distinguished woman with steel gray hair and an absolutely enormous feathered hat spoke up from the lowest row of the Wizengamot. "Though the procedure of this hearing was unusual in the extreme, the intent of this body was merely to get to the bottom of the matter, regardless of what… others have led you to believe."

Jean-Sebastian nodded his head in response. "I expect nothing less, honored member."

"Minister," the woman continued, "I move that the letter of the law has been met in this instance and that the charges against Mr. Potter be dropped. Of course, if you wish it to avoid all appearance of favoritism, we can administer Veritaserum and call in the other witnesses."

"Or I can cast my Patronus for you, if you'd like," Harry muttered, coloring when he realized his sarcastic comment had been clearly heard by the majority of the Wizengamot, including the elderly lady. She favored him with a smile and rolled her eyes in Fudge's direction.

Fudge, though, was not amused and scowled at him, ignoring the chorus of laughter which met Harry's irreverent statement.

"Did you wish to take Mr. Potter up on his offer, Minister?" Dumbledore interjected. His eyes were twinkling madly at his student, and he was clearly enjoying Harry's outburst and his somewhat impudent manner.

Apparently deciding it was best ignore the jibe, Fudge stared down at Harry imperiously as though wishing the young man would say something further to injure his reputation. This time, Harry stayed silent, aware that his cheeky outburst had been forgiven once but would not be a second time.

At length, Fudge raised his chin in a snooty gesture. "Very well," he stated, in a haughty tone. "It appears as though the Wizengamot has decided and further debating on the issue is futile. We will recognize Madam Longbottom's motion and drop all charges against Mr. Harry Potter. You are free to go, young man, but I must stress in the most serious manner that the Statute of Secrecy is not to be taken lightly."

The tension he had felt since the incident was immediately released, and Harry slumped slightly in relief. He was not to be expelled and kicked out of the wizarding world! The thought of seeing his friends again and laughing about everything which had happened caused him to grin with delight. He smiled at the assembled Wizengamot and stated, none too coherently, that he understood and would avoid the use of magic unless absolutely necessary.

Jean-Sebastian, it appeared, was not so easily appeased, if the stern and disapproving expression on his face was any indication. Fudge had apparently noticed Jean-Sebastian's expression as well, and he glared down at the man with open hostility.

"If that is all—" he began, only to be cut off.

"As it turns out, there is something else," Jean-Sebastian rejoined, his voice flat and unfriendly. "It has not escaped my attention that my new ward has been vilified in not only in your national _newspaper_," the word was spat out with some disgust, "but also by members of this government, even at the highest levels."

What went unsaid was the fact that the Minister himself was the main driving force behind the things which had been said about Harry, but no one misunderstood the insinuation. Though Fudge's face darkened in response, he could hardly refute the charge, fact that it was.

"So what would you propose, ambassador?" he snarled. "Mr. Potter has been exonerated in an open session of this Wizengamot. Does he wish for the post of Minister to add to his portfolio? I doubt even that would be enough of a boost to his ego."

"Cornelius, this is exactly the attitude the ambassador is speaking of," Dumbledore interjected sternly.

"I must insist you cease these constant attacks on my ward—I will not have the British public told sensational stories and outright lies about him."

Fudge's eyes narrowed even further, and he glared at Jean-Sebastian.

"Do I have your agreement, Minister?"

"You do," Madam Longbottom interjected, fixing the recalcitrant Minister with a baleful glare. "Regardless of personal opinions or pending hearings, this government has a duty to protect _all_ magicals, and the slandering of any citizen is not to be tolerated."

"I concur," Dumbledore confirmed. "There will be no further opinions regarding Mr. Potter, or any other citizen, issued by any member of this government. I give you my word that any such attacks will be dealt with."

Watching the Minister closely, Harry noticed the man himself said nothing, merely grunting in response to the strong statements which had been directed at him. Harry strongly suspected the Minister, as the top politician in the government, had never been hauled out on the carpet or spoken to in such a manner before. Or at least it had not happened since he had ascended to the Minister's office. It was equally obvious he was not appreciating the experience.

But Jean-Sebastian was not done. "That is acceptable, Madam Longbottom, Dumbledore," he said. "But it is the prior statements which now concern me. These must be rectified so Harry can continue with his life without further prejudice."

"And you wish to bring up the past again?" Fudge demanded. "Have we not given enough to Mr. Potter already?"

"No, you have not," Jean-Sebastian enunciated clearly. "With all that has been said about him, especially in the past few weeks, it is clear that the wizarding public of this country has had a slanderous image of Mr. Potter painted for them. This must be addressed—otherwise the mistaken perceptions of his character will persist. I insist on a public apology, to be published in the Daily Prophet in tomorrow's edition."

His lip curling once again in disgust, the Minister's eyes darted from Harry to Jean-Sebastian to Dumbledore and back to Harry again, clearly looking for some way out of his predicament. Unfortunately, no opportunity presented itself, and the reality of the situation was that he could not refuse without losing face even further than he already had.

With a curt nod, he spoke, although it was clear the words were like ashes on his tongue. "An apology will be printed in the Prophet tomorrow. In return, Mr. Potter must cease making public claims of the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Harry has offered the use of Veritaserum, Minister," Dumbledore cut in. "Will you not take him up on his offer?"

"No!" Fudge stated vehemently. "I will not have the public panic and hysteria caused by such a story, as it is merely Mr. Potter's word and has not been confirmed. The use of Veritaserum does not rule out the possibility of hallucination or illusion: only that Mr. Potter _believes_ what he says to be true."

He directed an insincere smile in Harry's direction, causing Harry to scowl in return. "After all, Mr. Potter had been through a challenging task moments before his experience—there is nothing to say that what he thought he saw was not influenced by his fatigue or some overt trickery on the part of supporters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, people intent on causing panic and destabilization. The events of the Quidditch World Cup have proved such people are still out there or that some other group wishes to make use of the fear they commanded during the war for their own purposes."

"The Ministry will investigate Mr. Potter's claims and respond accordingly," Fudge concluded. "There is no need to incite a public panic at this time."

Harry was unconvinced that Fudge would follow through with his pledge to investigate the matter—he struck Harry as the type of man who would ignore the unpleasant truth, hoping it would go away in time. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Dumbledore and Jean-Sebastian exchange a glance before their attention was returned to the Minister.

"That would be acceptable, Minister," Dumbledore confirmed. "As the head of the Wizengamot, please keep me apprised of the progress of your investigation. If, as Harry has stated, Voldemort has returned, we will need to act quickly to prepare for a conflict with his forces."

"Of course, Headmaster," the Minister said with another artificial smile. "You will be the first to know."

* * *

Privately, Jean-Sebastian held no doubt the Minister would attempt to sweep it all under the carpet and do nothing about Voldemort's return—he had been unwilling to even entertain the notion in the first place, and his sudden about-face was suspicious in the extreme. However, knowing only the Minister had the authority to launch a full investigation, Jean-Sebastian realized his own hands were tied at present. He was a foreigner, after all, and he could only do so much.

Still, there was one more matter which required attention, one which would provide Fudge another black eye. Or at least he hoped it would.

"Minister, if I could have the indulgence of the Wizengamot, there is one other matter which needs to be discussed today."

Fudge sighed and gazed down with exaggerated patience. "I think we have discussed the matter of Mr. Potter in great depth, ambassador. There is no need for further discourse. I assure you that everything which has been decided here today will be put into action at the earliest opportunity."

"Minister, what I have to say has nothing to do with Mr. Potter. It does, however, have a great deal of significance for everyone here today."

"I believe we need to let the ambassador speak, Minister," Dumbledore said. "The ambassador has discussed this with me previously, and this matter must inevitably come before the Wizengamot. It is better to discuss it now while we are all here."

Although silent for several moments, peering at Jean-Sebastian suspiciously, Fudge finally acquiesced. "If you must, then make it quick—do not waste the time of the Wizengamot."

Grinning with a feral intensity, Jean-Sebastian gave a slight, mocking bow. "Several months ago, I was contacted by Mr. Potter's guardian and made aware of his situation and the document which was used to ultimately conclude the engagement I have just spoken of. I was, I admit, absolutely astonished to be contacted by this person, but after taking the time to hear his story and verify it for myself, I understood his plight and agreed to assist him in any way possible to resolve his situation."

Augusta Longbottom was clearly becoming impatient. "Ambassador, will you please come to the point? You have mentioned Mr. Potter's guardian several times, but you have not mentioned his name. Who are you speaking of?"

"Mr. Potter's guardian is none other than Sirius Black."

The pandemonium which greeted Jean-Sebastian's statement was immediate and louder than his previous declarations had caused. Jean-Sebastian stood there and watched as witches and wizards yelled in disbelief, letting loose their outrage that he, a _foreigner_, had dared meet with one of their most hated and reviled criminals. They would soon find out just who the enemy was, Jean-Sebastian thought grimly.

With the assistance of Fudge's gavel, not to mention a concussion blast or two from the end of Dumbledore's wand, order was restored to the courtroom, although tempers were still high and threatened to flare at any moment.

Fudge gazed down at Jean-Sebastian with an unpleasant sneer—Jean-Sebastian was certain Fudge thought he had finally found something with which to attack his enemy. How little the Minister understood.

"How dare you cooperate with that murderer! Have you no decency at all? This man is a convicted killer, a mass murderer who was known to be after your charge when he escaped from Azkaban two years ago. Given your association with him, I wonder at the purpose of this alliance. Do you have some reason in conspiring with Black to gain control over the boy? And how can he even be considered to be Mr. Potter's guardian when he's a murderer?"

"Minister," Jean-Sebastian began, choosing his words very carefully to ensure he was understood, "Sirius Black is an escapee from Azkaban, but you and I both know he is _not_ a convicted killer!"

"Of course he is," Fudge stammered. "He spent a dozen years in Azkaban for betraying Mr. Potter's parents to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and blowing up a street, killing Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles."

"I am well aware of the time Mr. Black spent in Azkaban, Minister, but you don't have to act innocent. We both know he was put there without a trial."

"And as for his being Harry's guardian," Dumbledore interjected, "it all has to do with the magic involved. Godparents are magically assigned—and as Sirius was never tried and convicted, the magic still recognizes him not only as Harry's godfather but also as his legal guardian. Nothing can change this until he is actually convicted of some wrongdoing—then the guardianship and position of godfather would pass to whomever the Potters designated next in their wills."

Glancing around the room, the prevailing mood was one of shock—contrary to what Jean-Sebastian had suspected, it appeared that most, if not all of the British Wizengamot was not involved in whatever conspiracy had landed Sirius in Azkaban without due process. Either that or they were all exceptional actors. It would be a black eye on the collective Wizengamot, depending how it turned out Sirius had been denied a trial, something of which Jean-Sebastian was as of yet uncertain. He had had trouble digging up any information at all on the incarceration of Sirius Black, even with Dumbledore's help.

"This is ridiculous!" the pink-clad woman spoke up, obviously offended by the statements being made. "Everyone knows that Black was found guilty and sentenced to life in Azkaban. Do you think we do not know the status of our own criminals?"

"That's precisely what I am saying, Madam Umbridge," Jean-Sebastian replied. "Mr. Black stated to me, under the influence of Veritaserum, that upon being stunned by Aurors after confronting Peter Pettigrew, he awoke to find himself in Azkaban and was never taken to trial. Since the questioning of the perpetrator of such a serious crime under Veritaserum is standard procedure, I can only speculate that the trial never took place, unless some jumped-up mock trial was convened in which Mr. Black was not even allowed to defend himself. In either case, we seem to have a serious miscarriage of justice on our hands."

"Chief Warlock, can you illuminate us on the history of Mr. Black and the ministry?"

"Unfortunately not," Dumbledore replied with aplomb. "I became Chief Warlock more than a year after the war ended and was not involved in the decision. We were told that Minister Bagnold had convened a special tribunal of Wizengamot leaders and had found Sirius guilty and incarcerated him in Azkaban."

Dumbledore began pacing the room, his arms clasped behind his back, a look of intense concentration engraved upon his face. "Although a tribunal is an unusual procedure, it is within the right of the Minister and Chief Warlock to agree to try a criminal in such a manner, especially if the trial is expected to be divisive, or if there is a risk of sensitive information being released to the public—the tribunal is thought to act on behalf of the Wizengamot in instances such as this. In Sirius's specific case, the Minister was concerned about the effect of a sensational trial of the betrayal of the Potters, who continue to be a very popular family, and with Harry's own burgeoning popularity due to the defeat of Voldemort, it was deemed necessary to conduct the trial as quickly and unobtrusively as possible."

"And you never thought to question this?" Jean-Sebastian demanded, infuriated that his new friend had spent over a decade in the worst hell on earth without even the legal semblance of a trial. "Where are the checks on abuse of this procedure?"

"The Wizengamot itself," Dumbledore responded. "You must understand that this is a course of action which is rarely invoked. If any member of the Wizengamot feels the decision rendered by the tribunal is incorrect, they can bring a motion to the body to have the case retried before the entire Wizengamot. In fact, any citizen may bring forward the same motion via a petition to the Wizengamot. The Wizengamot would then vote on whether to hear the case and whether to hear it in closed or open session."

"Headmaster," Fudge interrupted, his voice strained, "I hardly think we should be speaking of this in full Wizengamot session. We should adjourn the court and take this up in private. I guarantee the Ministry will support any recommendation with respect to the status of Sirius Black and his escape from Azkaban."

"On the contrary," Madam Bones spoke up, "I believe this is exactly what we need. Far too often, the doings of this body have been mired in secrecy, which has led to this situation, among others. Please continue, Dumbledore."

Dumbledore bowed his head and continued. "With respect to Sirius, at the end of the First Wizarding War, our world was weary from years of guerilla warfare with Voldemort and heartsick over the deaths of the Potters, who many had considered heroes. The outpouring of sympathy for Harry's plight was such that the explanation was accepted and not questioned. No one would put forward a motion to grant the man a trial when the evidence against him seemed airtight.

"Since Sirius's escape, I have searched for transcripts of the trial, affidavits signed by those involved, anything which would give an indication that the hearing actually took place. Regardless of the secrecy of the tribunal, records should still have been kept, records which would be sealed to all except the Minister, the Chief Warlock, and a few others in high and trustworthy positions. These records would provide information for future reference or evidence of a miscarriage of justice."

Dumbledore stopped and gazed around the room, fixing each member with his expressionless stare in turn. "No such records exist. As Chief Warlock, I have the authority to access any records pertaining to any Wizengamot actions, regardless of how they were conducted. As no sign of them can be found, I conclude that the trial never took place."

"This is all very interesting, but do you have a point in bringing this up?" Umbridge asked. "We all know Sirius Black was guilty of the crimes of which he was accused, and regardless of his trial or lack thereof, you have still communicated with a murderer on the run from the Ministry."

Jean-Sebastian smirked at the unpleasant woman. The expression on Fudge's face told him that the Minister knew exactly why they were now referring to Sirius Black, but his pink lackey clearly had no idea of what Harry's claims regarding Pettigrew were. Wizarding Britain was about to receive a very nasty shock.

"Harry, would you like to do the honors?"

His new ward appeared somewhat surprised at being spoken to, but he screwed up his courage admirably and spoke in a clear voice. "Sirius didn't betray my parents, it was Peter Pettigrew."

"Peter Pettigrew!" the woman shrieked. "He was murdered by Black along with those Muggles—his finger was the only part of his body the Aurors could find! Headmaster Dumbledore has confirmed that Black was your parents' secret keeper—why do you persist in defending your parents' murderer?"

"Because Sirius Black was not their secret keeper when they were betrayed," Harry responded. "Sirius convinced my parents to switch to Peter Pettigrew, feeling Peter was the least obvious choice. They hoped to throw Voldemort off the trail."

"And how do you know this?" a voice rang out from the upper sections of the chamber.

Harry glanced apprehensively at Dumbledore—the headmaster gave a shrug, which was accompanied by Jean-Sebastian's smile of encouragement.

"I met him in my third year," Harry stated, causing the Wizengamot to fall silent in amazement. "He unmasked Pettigrew as the Weasleys' pet rat, Scabbers, and he and I were almost kissed by Dementors put there to protect the school by the Ministry."

Fudge had the grace to appear somewhat embarrassed at Harry's testimony—the decision to place Dementors at Hogwarts and the trouble they had caused there, particularly for Harry, had been lambasted in the press for months after they had been ordered back to Azkaban.

"And what happened to Pettigrew?" another voice asked.

"He escaped that night before we could get him back to the castle," Harry responded, not wanting to get into the exact details of the events from that evening. "The next time I saw him was when he performed the ritual to return Voldemort at the end of June."

"Chief Warlock, did you know of the switch in secret keepers?" Jean-Sebastian asked. "I seem to remember you were heavily involved with prosecuting the war against Voldemort and that you had a hand in the Potters' defense."

"Unfortunately, I didn't know at the time," Dumbledore responded somewhat sadly. "James, Peter, and Sirius enacted the switch with the utmost in secrecy, telling no one else of what they had done. I learned nothing about it until after Sirius escaped from Azkaban."

"And if I had known," he continued after a moment's thought, "I would have counseled against it. I had known all four boys since their entrance into Hogwarts, and knew that Pettigrew was not quite made of the same stuff as the other three. Although I had no idea he was a traitor, I knew that should he be captured, Voldemort would learn of the Potters' location immediately—Peter was not the type to resist Voldemort's torture to protect his friends." Harry noted the flinches from around the room at the mention of Voldemort's name, but Dumbledore either did not notice, or ignored them. "I feared he would give up any information, do anything to avoid continued mistreatment at the hands of Voldemort, regardless of whether Voldemort knew he was the secret keeper. At the time, we were aware of a leak in our ranks, but we suspected the wrong friend—Remus Lupin was our primary suspect in part due to his status as a werewolf and the known association of a number of werewolf packs with the forces of Voldemort. I deeply regret our lack of vision in this matter."

With Dumbledore's statement, all noise in the Wizengamot chamber ceased, giving over to contemplation of what had been revealed. It appeared the British legislative body as a whole was not happy with the situation, but with the testimony they had just heard, they could not deny the need for a trial for Sirius.

_ With any luck,_ Jean-Sebastian reflected grimly, _heads will roll over this—especially Fudge's. The fool was told of this over a year ago and denied all possibility of Sirius' innocence, doing nothing to ensure justice was done._

Glancing over at Harry, Jean-Sebastian saw a mixture of hope and longing in the young man's face. Knowing what he did of Harry's background with his relatives, Jean-Sebastian reached out and squeezed the young man's shoulder, reassuring him that all which could be done for his godfather would be done. It was time to drive the point home and leave this place—his time dealing with British politics and their Wizengamot had left a sour taste in Jean-Sebastian's mouth.

"Minister, you have the testimony of my charge that Sirius Black is alive and means no harm to him and that Peter Pettigrew is not only still alive, but also the real betrayer of James and Lily Potter and the murderer of those twelve Muggles. Harry, will you agree to be put under the influence of Veritaserum to confirm your statements?"

"Absolutely," came the resolute reply.

His eyes were still pinched with displeasure as he glared down at Harry, but for the moment, the British Minister made no response.

"Until such time as Mr. Black receives a proper trial for his actions, the French Ministry has made an offer of asylum to him. He will be treated for his time spent in Azkaban and has agreed to return to Britain to stand trial."

Ten minutes previous, such a statement would have set off a firestorm of indignation from the assembled members of the Wizengamot; however, the revelations about the true situation rendered the chamber silent—no one would risk their reputations, or the reputation of the body as a whole, by raising an objection to such a reasonable and _lawful_ suggestion.

"In addition, although I will take up Mr. Potter's guardianship for now, once Mr. Black has been exonerated—and we are certain he will be—he will once again take over his rightful duty. Please keep me and the French Ministry informed of the time of his trial so we can return him to Britain."

"Ambassador," Dumbledore interjected from Jean-Sebastian's side, "I give you my word as Chief Warlock that Mr. Black will be given a trial."

When Jean-Sebastian bowed in response, Dumbledore continued. "Given what I suspect is the state of his health after his long incarceration and his time on the run, perhaps it would be better to delay the hearing until he is feeling somewhat recovered from his ordeal. Perhaps sometime in September would be prudent?"

"I will speak to our healers and have them provide an update of his condition."

"Thank you, ambassador." Dumbledore turned his gaze on the Minister. "Minister, since Sirius is now the guest of the French Ministry, it would be prudent to alert the Muggle authorities that he is no longer sought after. Please liaise with your counterpart in the Muggle government."

Although he appeared like he was trying to swallow a whole grapefruit, Fudge nodded his head curtly.

Dumbledore then gazed around the silent Wizengamot chamber. "I would also like to step from my role as Chief Warlock and state as Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards that the ICW supports the actions of the French Ministry and the ambassador in the matter of Sirius Black's asylum in France and the marriage contract enacted between Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour. As the ambassador mentioned earlier, the ICW has voted overwhelmingly for support in these matters."

He paused to let the import of his statements sink in. "Now, if there are no further matters to discuss, perhaps we should adjourn these proceedings."

Appearing to wish nothing more than to remove himself from the site of his embarrassing defeat, Fudge acquiesced most ungraciously with a muttered agreement, coupled with a sharp rap from his gavel. In moments, he had gathered his belongings and stalked from the room, his faithful pink puppy hard on his heels.

As the assembled members began to file from the room, Jean-Sebastian turned to Harry and Dumbledore, shaking both of their hands firmly. The expression of surprise and embarrassment on young Harry's face was amusing, while slightly concerning to Jean-Sebastian. Harry, it appeared, badly needed a measure of confidence and care, something he was not receiving from his relatives. Jean-Sebastian's family, although the marriage contract had been a shock, had fully committed to providing that to the young man, an effort which Sirius would certainly join enthusiastically.

Sensing the young man had some questions for him, Jean-Sebastian turned to Dumbledore and thanked him for his support. "If I could have a few moments' indulgence, I believe Harry has some questions for me. I still need to speak with the Minister about one other piece of business—will you ensure he does not run off with his tail between his legs before I can meet him?"

Dumbledore laughed quietly in response. "I do not doubt the Minister will be unexcited by such a request, but I will see to it that we have a short time with him. Shall we say in half an hour from now?"

Jean-Sebastian nodded his head and motioned for Harry to follow him from the courtroom.

* * *

A bewildered Harry Potter followed his benefactor from the courtroom, dazed at the events of the previous half hour. It would take some time for him to assimilate the information and changes to his life.

Still, it seemed to be for the better—at the very least, it appeared he would not have to return to the Dursleys', even if he was about to be forced into a marriage with someone he hardly knew.

And he had gained a significant ally. If he was any judge at all, Jean-Sebastian appeared to be a strong, no-nonsense leader who would not only fight for the rights of Harry's godfather, but also present a warm, comfortable home for him until Sirius was physically fit again. Knowing what he did of other families, Harry knew he had suffered from the lack of some manner of support from a family unit—he knew he had missed it desperately. Perhaps this would be the start of a new chapter in his life, one which was not all darkness and despair. He could only hope.

They walked through the hallways of the Ministry, avoiding the small groups of Wizengamot elders who had stopped here and there to confer with one another and the other Ministry employees who dotted the hallways, going about whatever business the Ministry was doing that day.

As they approached the stairway leading up to the upper levels, Harry's line of sight was caught by the woman in garish pink. She was watching him, the same sickeningly sweet expression plastered on her face, while in contrast, her cold eyes seemed to impale him from a distance. He returned her gaze unflinchingly, causing her smile to slip into a frown of displeasure, before following Jean-Sebastian up the stairs and reflecting he had made another enemy this day. Of course, given the way she had conducted herself in the courtroom, he suspected she had turned up already opposed to him for some unfathomable reason.

"We'll take the stairway down to level one," Jean-Sebastian commented. "No sense exposing you to the masses in the Atrium so soon after the hearing."

Harry agreed immediately, grateful the man understood his aversion to crowds, especially in light of his unwanted fame.

On the first floor of the Ministry building, Jean-Sebastian commandeered a small conference room, and after ensuring the door was closed for complete privacy, he turned and took a seat, motioning for Harry to do the same.

"Well, Harry," Jean-Sebastian began, slight amusement coloring his voice, "It's a lot to take in over the course of less than an hour, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied automatically.

Smiling, Jean-Sebastian waved Harry's words off. "Harry, I've just become your temporary guardian, and I will be your father-in-law at some point—I do not stand on ceremony. There is no need to call me sir. Jean-Sebastian will suffice."

Appreciating the fact that the man wished to have more of an equal relationship with him than just guardian and ward, Harry relaxed slightly, allowing a small smile to come over his face.

"Thank you, Jean-Sebastian. It is a lot to take in."

"Do not worry—I am certain you will have lots of time to think about the changes. Sirius is staying in my chateau in France while he undergoes treatment for his time in Azkaban. You will see him when we go there today."

"I've never been to France," Harry responded nervously. "Do you mean for us to stay there until school starts again?"

"Actually, we will be moving to England in the very near future, but that's something I still need to discuss with your Minister. You will only be in France for a few days at most."

Harry nodded, digesting the fact that he would see Sirius—he had been concerned and surprised when he had not seen his godfather at Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore had assured him that all was well, but he had refused to tell him any more, saying that it was not his place and that no one else had had any information on Sirius's whereabouts. He was reassured to know his godfather was now being cared for by real healers.

"I'm sorry, s… Jean-Sebastian…" Harry stammered, noting the grin at his near slip-up. Harry found himself smiling in response, appreciating the fact that his new guardian was this so personable and easy to deal with.

Trying again, Harry took a deep breath. "I just wanted to say… I'm sorry for my reaction in the courtroom to your announcement. It's all just…"

Jean-Sebastian reached over and grasped Harry's shoulder. "As I said before, Harry, I am not upset. I knew this would be a lot for you to take in—it's not every day you find out you are engaged to someone you barely know."

"No, it isn't," Harry responded in a quiet voice, thinking of his friends and how they would react. The thoughts he had had of Hermione and Ron this morning did not seem to matter any longer, considering the new reality of his situation. "I can't imagine Fleur is very happy about it either."

"She was not when I first told her of what would happen," Jean-Sebastian responded with amusement. "You have to understand, Harry, although arranged marriages are not common any longer, they are still done often enough that every child raised in the magical world is aware of the possibility their spouse may be chosen for them by their parents. Fleur was surprised and not very happy about the development—she is not the type to take anything done without her consent with any degree of contentment—but we discussed it, and I believe she has become at the very least resigned to the situation. It may not have been what she would have chosen, but it is better than a lot of young women in her position can expect."

At Harry's questioning glance, Jean-Sebastian shook his head. "That's something you will have to ask Fleur—it has to do with being a Veela. She can explain it much better than I can."

Harry's curiosity was piqued, but he refrained from questioning his guardian any further on the subject, knowing his questions would not be answered.

"Fleur is at least acquainted with you and respects you, so you are both starting out better than many who end up in arranged marriages. I do not know what will happen in the future, but I believe you will do well together."

Dubiously regarding his companion, Harry responded, "Fleur respects me?"

Jean-Sebastian let out a loud laugh and shook his head. "So, I see you have been subjected to the infamous Fleur mask of arrogance."

At Harry's expression of incomprehension, Jean-Sebastian let out a few more chuckles and—wiping his eyes—gathered himself to face his ward. "Again, perhaps this is not my story to tell, but Fleur's arrogance is somewhat of a… show, if you will."

Jean-Sebastian eyed Harry before continuing. "You will have to go to her for details, but you should understand it is not easy to be a Veela when you are surrounded by others who are jealous of your abilities. Surely you have felt some measure of this yourself."

It was only the truth, Harry reflected, and he was suddenly glad of the fact he had decided to reserve judgment. He had never thought of the difficulty she would have to face every day, the jealousy and distrust others must feel toward a girl who by all accounts could turn any head, could steal any boyfriend, merely by turning on her Veela allure, without even resorting to her incredible physical beauty. He did not know Fleur beyond a simple, basic acquaintance, but he thought he knew enough to deduce she was not the type to behave in such a fashion, regardless of what others may think of her. Either way, she certainly had not done so when he had been able to witness it.

"I understand," he responded quietly.

"Good," Jean-Sebastian approved. "I trust you and Fleur will take the time to get to know one another."

"Yes, sir," Harry responded without thinking, prompting another fond smile from Jean-Sebastian

"Now, Harry, in answer to your question, yes, Fleur does respect you. Your courage during the tournament, the way you held yourself under the most trying of circumstances, the manner in which you beat the odds to win—they all definitely made an impression on my daughter."

Harry's cheeks were burning at the praise, especially since it was coming from a man who was speaking as though he had heard these praises from his beautiful daughter. The rush of color did not go unnoticed either, as he immediately saw his new benefactor grinning in response to Harry's embarrassment.

"But more especially, Harry, I believe she respects you and is grateful to you for your actions during the second task. You may not be aware of this, but Veela are beings of fire. Fleur's powers are at their lowest within the element of water, which is why she found it difficult, if not impossible, to defeat the grindylows which attacked her as she searched for her sister."

Jean-Sebastian's eyes became misty as he recollected what must have been a painful experience for him and his family. "I was so worried for her—and for Gabrielle when I learned she was under the water as well—and did not sleep well for weeks in advance of the second task once Fleur told me what it entailed. Although every precaution was taken to ensure the safety of all the participants, you are well aware of the dangers inherent in the tasks, regardless of precautions."

A smile broke over Jean-Sebastian's face. "Nice bit of flying during the first task, by the way. I don't think I've ever seen the like in all my years."

Harry felt his face become hot yet again, but this time Jean-Sebastian was not paying attention, lost as he was in the recollection of the previous school year.

"Knowing the nature of the tasks and the skill and courage needed to face them, place yourself in Fleur's shoes, and think of how it was for her, going into a task which was already intrinsically dangerous, but also being held in an element which is the antithesis of the majority of your powers. Fleur was at a serious disadvantage in that task, even greater than your own disadvantage throughout the entire tournament due to your being younger than the other champions.

"Then, consider the fact that Fleur loves her sister very much, and when she discovered her missing on the morning of the task, she was frantic, knowing her handicap in the task, and seriously questioned her ability to save her sister. And then the grindylows attacked and her worst fears were realized. You heard how the clue was worded—she emerged from the lake shivering and injured, but even more so, she was heartsick at her failure, deeply afraid of what may become of her sister.

"Then, against all hope, her sister emerges from the lake, and the means of her rescue is a boy who, in her own words, she had 'treated as though he was the lowest form of dirt to be scraped from the bottom of her shoes'. She was ashamed for her actions and words—had been ashamed of them for months—but her relief and joy were so great in the rescue of her sister that she expressed herself as gratefully as she was able. Believe me, Harry, she more than respects you. Any more than that, I think you'll have to hear from her yourself."

Harry was struggling with the praise—he did not think he had done anything especially noteworthy or heroic. He had been in a position to help someone, or so he thought, and he had taken that opportunity. Who would not? And it had all been so pointless—if he had thought about it at the time, he would have realized Dumbledore would never have allowed someone to be lost forever just because one of the champions had failed to retrieve their hostage.

"But Jean-Sebastian, it was all so pointless. The hostages were never in any danger at all—the Headmaster told me after the task."

Jean-Sebastian merely shook his head. "Don't try to deflect praise, Harry—it is very unbecoming. Did you believe at the time that my daughter would be lost if she were not rescued?"

At Harry's brief nod, he continued. "Then does the deed have any less meaning knowing in hindsight that it was ultimately unnecessary? Perhaps if you had thought about it further, you would have realized the hostages were safe regardless of your actions, but that does nothing to erase the fact that you acted heroically to save another person's life based on the information you possessed at the time."

"Hermione calls it my saving people thing," Harry responded with some embarrassment.

Jean-Sebastian threw his head back and roared with laughter, wiping the tears from his eyes as he shook his head in mirth. Harry had to acknowledge his laughter with a grin of his own—he had to admit it was amusing to have his impulse to help others described in such a manner.

"I guess it is at that," Jean-Sebastian finally responded, shaking his head between bouts of laughter. "But that's why I felt I had a debt to you, Harry. I'm not certain how much you understand about these things, but debts are taken very seriously in the magical world. They are generally magical in nature and can comprise of anything from monetary debts to life debts—technically, you saved my daughter's life, which binds you to my family by magic. If you were to invoke this debt, it would make the bond even stronger, allowing you access to many other demands you could make to my family… and to Gabrielle in particular.

"And then there is the matter of what you did for Fleur during the third task. I presume it was you who rescued her when she was unconscious in the maze?"

Slightly scared as to where this was leading, Harry nodded his head. "She was being held by some vines. I freed her, then shot sparks out of my wand so she would be rescued."

Looking thoughtful, Jean-Sebastian steepled his fingers for a moment before continuing. "In that case as well, it is uncertain what would have ultimately happened to Fleur. Whether a declared life debt would ever take hold if you were to invoke either incident I cannot say, but I still cannot ignore the matter."

Struggling somewhat with the concept, Harry tentatively regarded Jean-Sebastian. "What kind of demands would I be able to ask for?"

Jean-Sebastian shrugged. "There are many, depending on the degree of the debt and the relationship between the parties. Essentially, though, if you called in your debt to either of my girls, they would not be able to harm you, ever, and they may even be forced to take other actions, such as defending you against your enemies and the like."

Seeing Harry's look of relief, Jean-Sebastian chuckled and slapped him on the back. "Do not worry, Harry, they could not be forced to do anything immoral or illegal—magic does not work that way. You could not make them do anything they feel is wrong or degrading, you would just be able to control their intentions and actions against yourself and anyone with whom you associate."

"Was this why you helped me?"

"In part," Jean-Sebastian responded. "Yes, I feel a debt exists between us, and my openly supporting you, assisting in the trial, and betrothing you to Fleur is a measure of repaying that debt.

"But another part of my reasoning is out of concern for my daughter."

He regarded Harry, who squirmed somewhat uncomfortably, before continuing. "I have told you very briefly of some of the challenges Fleur faces and some of my worries for her future. I am secure enough in your character and in your personality that by betrothing her to you I know she will be well taken care of and will be loved and valued for herself. Now I do not need to worry about the possibility she will never find someone or, worse yet, that she will eventually fall in love with someone who cares nothing for her but wants her for a plaything or a trophy to show his friends. It was not long ago that such a fate was all too common for Veela. Now that Fleur is taken care of, I only need to worry about Gabrielle, and she is many years from that, as she is still only nine years old.

"And of course, the situation with this Lord Voldemort of yours played into my decision. You will be in direct conflict with this dark lord, and he seems to have taken an unhealthy interest in you. But I understand what this government of yours seems not to—eventually, if he is able to take over England, it will be too small for him, and he will start looking beyond its borders. By supporting you, who I believe will be instrumental in the effort against him, I am helping to defend my own homeland as well as yours."

"Thank you, sir," Harry responded, filled with emotion. Jean-Sebastian spoke to him as an adult and treated him as if he was a person of worth—rarely had he experienced that from adults of his acquaintance.

"You are welcome, Harry," Jean-Sebastian replied with a warm smile. "I can see already that we will become great friends. Now, did you have anything else you wanted to ask me?"

Harry thought about it momentarily before venturing another question. "How did this marriage contract come about?"

"It was your grandfather and my father, Harry," Jean-Sebastian answered after a moment's thought. "Fifty years ago, your grandfather was the English Ambassador to France. My father, Jean-Francois Delacour, was a member of the upper echelons of the French government. They met and became friends with one another and ultimately created the marriage contract to bind their families together. The contract was worded in such a way that it was to bind a firstborn Potter and a firstborn Delacour. But as I am the eldest sibling in my family and your father was your grandfather's only child, the contract went unfulfilled.

"This is why I am able to betroth my daughter to you—you are both firstborn in your respective families, meeting the conditions of the contract."

"But what would have happened if we were not betrothed?" Harry asked worriedly. "I've heard that breach of contract can have some disastrous results in the magic world."

"That is correct," Jean-Sebastian said with a wry smile, "but in this case you do not need to worry. Until the contract is accepted by both parties—or in the case of a marriage contract, the guardians of both parties—it is not binding. I did not even know my father had done this—it was Sirius who was searching through some old papers belonging to your father, who found it and alerted me to its existence."

"But isn't Fleur of age? Wouldn't she have to agree to the marriage contract herself?"

"Fleur is of age," Jean-Sebastian confirmed. "But in the magical world, children are still bound to their parents in a number of ways, the most of important of which in this case, is in relation to my status as the head of the Delacour family. Regardless of her age, I can still negotiate a marriage contract on her behalf, if I believe it is in the best interest of the family.

"Now, of course I would take her wishes into account, and if she had a serious boyfriend or fiancé, or had reservations about this marriage, I would likely have tried to find another way to help you. I could have forced her into it, though, as long as she was not already married—there are a few things I cannot override, and an already existing marriage is one of them.

"Of course, many parents might not take these things into account. I love my daughters and want them to be happy, but to many, especially in traditional Pureblood society, children are often merely pawns used to set up alliances between houses—their wishes are not taken into account. I like to think that I am somewhat more civilized than that."

It made a certain amount of sense, Harry reflected, and fit in with a lot of what he knew about family groups in the magical world. It was also comforting that although Jean-Sebastian could have forced his daughter into this, he did not, and would not have. As he had said before, she was at least resigned to it—maybe in time they could actually grow into an appreciation or even love for each other.

"Did you know my father?" Harry asked hesitantly, hoping he had one more link to his dead parents.

"I did indeed. I lived in England for a time when I was a child—it is the reason I speak English without much of an accent. As my father was close to your grandfather, we were regular playmates, and even though I was a few years older than your father, we were great friends as well. Unfortunately, when we returned to France before I started my schooling, my father died tragically a short time later, and we lost contact with your family."

Harry nodded, slightly choked with emotion. He had someone else who knew his father as a young boy, which meant another connection. It was not much, but it meant the world to him.

"Well, young Harry, I think our half hour is almost up," Jean-Sebastian said, rising to his feet. "You undoubtedly have more questions, but I believe we will have time to answer them in the coming weeks."

Agreeing, Harry followed his new guardian from the room, reflecting that his life was undergoing massive changes. It was not what he had expected, but his time alone with Jean-Sebastian had reassured him all would be well.

* * *

_Updated 02/24/2013  
_


	4. Chapter 3 – Meetings

**Chapter 3 – Meetings**

While a Wizengamot session would not normally be broadcast out to the general public, in this instance Fudge, seemingly confident of his case and wanting to make certain the entire population witnessed the downfall of the great Harry Potter, had ordered the proceedings open to all. Now, with his arguments in ruins and the young man exonerated, his hasty and overconfident decision appeared to have backfired, almost ensuring his popularity, which was always an iffy thing at best, would take a huge hit. How much of a hit—and whether it would ultimately cost him his job—remained to be seen.

While most of the country paid at least some attention to the proceedings (Harry Potter was, after all, big news in the British wizarding world), nowhere was the broadcast so intently dissected as in the house at Grimmauld Place. The affection and friendship for the young man felt by most in that house, ensured the general anxiety level would be high, regardless of the outwardly confident statements of the various occupants that Dumbledore would never allow Harry to be expelled. And while they had all voiced the same platitudes at some point in time, each had his or her own doubts of the eventual outcome of the trial and the fate of the young man who had become important to each and every one of them. Every phase of the trial was carefully listened to and agonized over, and while there were enough twists and turns in the proceedings to do a murder novel proud, when the verdict was known and the charges were dropped by the Minister, a general feeling of relief over Harry's exoneration was felt through out the house.

But beyond the relief and the satisfaction for the way Jean-Sebastian had insisted on the public apology, the reaction to the news of Harry's betrothal to the beautiful French witch was about as varied as there were people in the room.

Remus, ever the Marauder and aware of the great prank which had just been perpetrated on the Minister, was silently cheering his friend on, thankful that Sirius had done something to assist his godson rather than mope around Grimmauld. He was also happy Sirius would finally receive the treatment he needed and the exoneration he deserved—Remus, to be truthful, still harbored feelings of guilt for believing Sirius capable of the betrayal for which he had spent so many years of his life locked away.

Tonks, who had met Harry barely a week before and already considered him to be an honorary little brother, was contemplating the great opportunity to tease her shy friend about his engagement to the beautiful French girl. But beyond that, she was contemplating how she could help the young man further in his development and struggle against the dark lord, who seemed to have targeted the young man. She was an Auror—and though quite new to her position, she still felt she could be of some use to the young man by teaching him what she knew. The ability to fight would only help him in the coming struggle, and he was, after all, of an age and maturity where he could now be taught some of the more complicated spells which would eventually serve him.

Fred and George were merely happy for their friend, sharing a knowing glance—as only twins as close as they were could—that such an unusual happening was undoubtedly normal for Harry's decidedly odd world.

And Bill Weasley, though he really did not know Harry well at all, was happy the likeable young man had received the justice he was due. Beyond that, he was nevertheless arrested by an indefinable sense of loss—he had seen the young French witch at the tournament the previous June and been instantly smitten by her. And now she was out of reach.

Ginny was the most vocal in her response—although this was perhaps not surprising to those around her—as she gasped loudly and then started wailing, throwing her arms around her mother and sobbing bitterly about the unfairness of the world.

While she was comforting her daughter, Molly Weasley, although not as noticeably upset with the development, was at least as angry—she had always held out hope that Harry would take a fancy to her youngest child and join their family through marriage. That she had encouraged her young daughter from the earliest time of Ginny's memory—and thereby in part helped cause the infatuation which now led to her daughter's distress—was something she did not even consider. Molly had known Harry's parents when they were young, and after she had finally produced a daughter a little more than a year after Harry's birth, she had immediately gotten the idea that her little Ginevra would be the perfect mate for the young Potter heir. Those plans were, of course, now completely in ruins.

* * *

For Ron Weasley, the reaction was a little more complex than most, partially due to his close association with Harry and all that had passed between them, especially in the last year, and partially due to his feelings for a certain brown-haired witch.

Simply put, Ron had self-esteem issues, although he had certainly never considered it in such a way himself. The youngest of six boys, he always felt as though he was struggling to keep up with the legacy of five successful and popular brothers, not to mention a younger sister who was the darling of the family due to her being the first daughter born to the Weasley line in several generations. Add to that the fact that he had made, quite by accident, a close friend in Harry Potter, the most famous person of his generation, and it was quite easy to see why Ron sometimes felt a little lost in the shuffle.

It was the issue of Harry's fame which had partially been behind their problems during the tournament. It was not like Ron truly believed Harry had cheated his way into the tournament or that he was seeking more fame. Or at least that is what he came to understand in hindsight, once the realization of the true reason Harry had been entered into the tournament had set in. After all, his close association with his friend dictated that Ron, more than anyone else except perhaps Hermione, knew how much Harry hated his fame. But when Harry's name came out of that goblet, to Ron it was yet another instance of Harry getting all the glory. It did not matter whether he wanted it. Ron craved a little more recognition for himself, though certainly not the fame and adulation Harry routinely received, which he understood would be exasperating. No, what Ron had in mind was to receive just enough so he could finally be known as Ron Weasley… rather than "best friend to the Boy-Who-Lived" or "the youngest Weasley boy".

Of course, now he bitterly regretted his hasty and unthinking declaration the previous Halloween night. In true Harry fashion, once Ron had made the first move, Harry had offered his forgiveness without a single bat of an eye—Harry had the biggest heart Ron had ever seen, especially when one considered his upbringing. In anyone else, the effect of his neglectful guardians would have produced quite the opposite kind of person, Ron was certain. But despite Harry's forgiveness and acceptance of Ron's apology, it had introduced a distance between the two, a distance which had never been there before… and which Ron was uncertain how to bridge.

But even more than the distance between Ron and his best friend, Ron regretted the fact that his behavior had essentially pushed Hermione away from him. Of course Hermione had supported and believed Harry—Ron should have known she would. Hermione had grown up as much of an outsider as Harry—there was no way she would have given up such a friendship without some catastrophic event to completely destroy it. And this did not even take into account the closeness she had always shared with Harry, a closeness which Ron suspected surpassed even that between Ron and Harry.

And while Harry was his best friend, he wanted Hermione to be more—so much more. Of course, his friendship with Hermione remained the same as ever; as always, they mixed equal parts hanging out and sticking up for one another with an equal part of fighting with one another.

However, Ron had been making an attempt to argue less with her while trying to appear more in tune with her personality—almost like he was wooing her without making any overt moves. It had been difficult—after all, the things in which she was most interested, books and studying, did not really mesh well with his love of Quidditch and chess. Regardless of their different personalities, Hermione was turning into an attractive young woman, one who he would love to know on a more personal, intimate basis. If only it was not for Harry.

But then that was not fair either—Harry was the linchpin that kept them together, after all, and Ron was aware that Hermione would likely never have been more than just another annoying girl in his year without Harry.

But without Harry, there would also be no competition for her affections—of that he was certain.

Some people considered Ron slightly slow and thick when it came to those around him, and objectively, Ron knew he tended to be single-minded and to miss things that others would pick up on. But Ron was anything but stupid, and he was far above average in some areas. He had made an attempt to be more observant around his friends this summer, particularly watching for any hint of affection beyond that of mere friendship between his closest friends.

And what he had seen between them had not encouraged him at all—without seeming to be aware of it, they were close, far too close for Ron's comfort. Their eyes lingered on one another a little too long, they touched more than was necessary—nothing more as of yet than a comforting hand on the shoulder or the tips of their fingers on an arm to emphasize a point—and they truly seemed in sync with one another. It all would have appeared platonic and completely innocent to the disinterested observer, yet to the newly observant Ron their actions had spoken loudly and uncomfortably for his ambitions.

The major problem, to Ron's point of view, was the fact that if it came down to a choice between him and Harry, Ron was almost certain what Hermione's choice would be—and it would not be in his favor. Consciously or unconsciously, Hermione would always put Harry first, and if Harry were to express any interest at all in Hermione, Ron knew her choice would be made without even thinking about it. There would be nothing he could do to alter her preference.

But then this morning's events had completely thrown everything for a loop, but amazingly enough, it had worked to Ron's advantage. Being betrothed to another, Harry could hardly be any competition to Ron's pursuit of Hermione any longer, a fact which had Ron elated. It seemed fate had intervened in his favor for once.

But then the other side of Ron, the jealous prat who had reared his ugly head the previous year in the tournament, was slightly put off that Harry had once again, through no effort of his own, seemed to fall into a good situation. He had become engaged in an instant to a young woman who was possibly the most beautiful Ron had ever laid eyes on. How in Merlin's name did Harry get so lucky?

Shaking his head, Ron turned his thoughts away from his musings and peered surreptitiously at the young woman he hoped would become much more in his life than a mere friend. Hermione sat quietly staring intently at something only she could see, appearing as conflicted as he felt. She seemed somewhat disappointed to Ron's point of view, no doubt unhappy Harry was now off the market.

Still, that again could work to Ron's advantage. Perhaps he could be there for her—provide a sympathetic ear to listen to her troubles.

That was it, Ron decided. He would forget about Harry's good fortune and concentrate on his own. He would win Hermione's heart!

* * *

The subject of Ron's musings was engulfed in thoughts of her own.

Harry was free. He would not be taken from her—he would return to Hogwarts with her this year, and everything would be unchanged from what it was before.

But Hermione knew it was not the truth—everything had changed. Certainly Harry would continue to be her best friend and confidante; they would continue to do everything together, she would still see him every day.

But it would all be different, too. The new Harry would be promised in marriage to another, and eventually he would owe his allegiance to someone else. She would stop being the most important female in his life.

Hermione knew she should be happy for Harry—happy he had managed to avoid the fate for which Fudge had been pressing; happy he would continue to be a factor in her life.

But a part of her—a small, indefinable part which she could not shake—felt nothing but sorrow over the news of his betrothal to the beautiful French witch. How could she possibly compete with someone like Fleur Delacour? Of course, there was no competition. He was now engaged; it was done. Nothing she could do would change that fact. She would never be anything more to him than a best friend, and even that would slip away as they matured.

How could this have happened? How had she developed these feelings for her best friend without even realizing it? How had it managed to slip past her over-organized mind, one which was usually so adept at catching every little thing? What was she to do now?

Automatically, she glanced over at her other friend, Ron Weasley, who appeared to be lost in a world of his own. Hermione was not unaware of Ron's feelings for her. He was not the type to hide his emotions; they were usually plain for anyone to see, and Hermione was nothing if not observant. Although she had not been aware of it, her attention had largely been on Harry since he had arrived at Grimmauld Place, and she knew that attention had in turn garnered the attention of her other best friend.

What Hermione did not know was whether she could return Ron's feelings.

Ron was a good friend and while he did occasionally descend into jealous fits and he argued with her incessantly, he was also fiercely protective of her. Hermione had always known there was an even chance she would end up with one of her two best friends, but until now, she had always assumed it would be Harry rather than Ron. She and Harry made a much better match than she and Ron. For one thing, they did not always argue, and while her tendency to boss and nag did annoy him as much as it did Ron (in her own defense, she was learning to curb that particular facet of her personality), she knew her drive and determination helped his sometimes lackadaisical manner, whereas his boundless courage and ability to have fun helped balance her own tendency toward overwork and occasional timidity. She seriously doubted she could have had the courage to punch Malfoy in the third year without Harry's influence.

What did she have in common with Ron? Nothing sprang to mind, but what she did remember were their frequent arguments and Ron's tendency to belittle her achievements and anything with which she found enjoyment.

Still, it was apparent that if she was to end up with one of her best friends, it would be Ron, as Harry was now unavailable. It was a difficult admission to make, but she knew for the good of them both she had no choice but to suppress the feelings she had always harbored for Harry.

But could she transfer those feelings to Ron?

* * *

Leaving Harry outside in the waiting room, Jean-Sebastian entered the minister's office, finding the Headmaster and Minister waiting for him, one with a welcoming smile and the other with an exaggerated mask of patience engraved upon his face. Jean-Sebastian barely held back from rolling his eyes at the man—his attitude was only to be expected from such a cowardly excuse for a minister. Hopefully, this meeting would take him down another peg or two.

The office was large and lavishly furnished and decorated. The furniture was of the finest dragonhide, the walls were dotted with paintings, and every nook and cranny was filled with objects and artwork, stowed here and there with little apparent thought to organization or style. It was obviously the office of a man who loved his comforts, and it appeared to be calculated to remind the visitor that the office was occupied and that the occupant was here to stay for the foreseeable future. Taste was certainly not a consideration, if the sometimes gaudy and overdone ornaments were any indication, and there was no thought given to the arrangement or display, except to bludgeon the viewer over the head with the wealth of its owner.

_ The man needs the services of an expert in interior design,_ Jean-Sebastian thought with some sardonic amusement. With any luck, he would not occupy the office much longer.

He appeared to have interrupted a conversation between them—one, unless Jean-Sebastian missed his guess, which included a healthy dose of complaints from the Minister. The comments from the Headmaster's side had likely been vaguely placatory but entirely noncommittal. The subject of those complaints, of course, was obvious.

"Have a seat, ambassador," Dumbledore said, waving his hand at one of the chairs.

The Minister glared at the Headmaster, presumably unhappy over Dumbledore's liberality with his office, but he said little, merely echoing the sentiments in a barely civil tone.

Laughing lightly to himself, Jean-Sebastian sat in the indicated chair and gazed at the Minister, wondering what the man's reaction would be to his little announcement. Nothing good, unless he missed his guess.

After a moment of silence, Fudge sighed in an embellished manner and fixed Jean-Sebastian with a glare.

"I'm told by Dumbledore that you requested this meeting, ambassador," he ground out. "If you have something to say, please say it. I am a busy man."

Jean-Sebastian bowed his head, forcing the urge to laugh at the man's pomposity to remain unexpressed. "Indeed, I have, Minister. I have a few reasons for being here now. Foremost is to ensure the things we discussed in the Wizengamot chambers would be implemented without delay."

Fudge fixed him with an unfriendly eye. "Ambassador, I will not lie to you—I am extremely displeased with the outcome of the trial. Your ward has been a thorn in the side of this Ministry since he began attending Hogwarts, and I am not happy with the favoritism he has been receiving and the way we have bent over backward to accommodate a young boy whose only claim to fame was an accident which occurred when he was merely a baby."

"_F__avoritism?_ You mean a trumped up trial designed to promote character assassination and a basic denial of rights? Is the _favoritism_ to which you refer?" Jean-Sebastian intervened quietly, his voice deadly serious and unfriendly.

Pausing at the venom in Jean-Sebastian's voice, Fudge nevertheless chose to ignore his words and continued on as though he had not spoken. "Regardless of my personal feelings regarding the matter, I assure you that everything we have committed to will be done. You will have your apology in the _Prophet_ tomorrow—the responsibility has already been delegated to the appropriate individual, and the Prophet reporter is already on his way to the Ministry. As for Mr. Black, he will be given a trial as soon as can be arranged."

Although Jean-Sebastian noted that Fudge had omitted the promise to investigate the matter of Voldemort's return, he knew he would get no more out of the man given his state of mind. The Dark Lord would have to be a discussion for another time—he had another purpose for this meeting today.

The matter of Sirius was really one which did not affect Fudge personally, as the travesty had occurred before Fudge's tenure had begun. Jean-Sebastian knew Fudge could afford to be magnanimous in that matter. Jean-Sebastian decided it was best to appear grateful for the assurances in the matter of Sirius Black—it could serve him well in the upcoming conversations which would not be quite so palatable to the English Minister.

"That is acceptable, Minister. Please keep me up to date on the status of your investigations and provide the date and time for Mr. Black to return to England. I will be certain to get him here at the appointed time."

"Very well, ambassador," Fudge replied with a wave of his hand. "Now, if there is nothing else…?"

"Actually, Minister, I do have another piece of business."

Jean-Sebastian could read the annoyance, tinged with the slightest hint of apprehension in Fudge's eyes—so far, Jean-Sebastian's announcements of business had been extraordinarily bad for the Minister.

"Really, ambassador," he responded in a chiding tone of voice, "I would think you had put forth enough _business_ today to last a lifetime. Surely this can wait for another day."

"I'm afraid not, Minister. I bring you the greetings of the French Ministry today and a piece of news which will be of interest to you and will affect British/French relations."

"Very well," Fudge responded. He comported himself in a nonchalant manner, but his eyes were as hard as agates. "Please continue, although I am not certain what the French Ministry could say which would not involve their ambassador to England. Is Ambassador Tremblay out of the country right now?"

"Indeed, he is, Minister," Jean-Sebastian replied, watching Fudge closely. "In fact, my business here today is to inform you that Monsieur Tremblay has accepted another post within the French Ministry. Due to this shuffle and to my qualifications and unique requirements with respect to young Harry and his continued attendance at Hogwarts, I have accepted the posting of Ambassador to England, effective immediately. The move will be officially announced to your government tomorrow."

Displeasure and anger immediately darkened Fudge's face as he glared back across the desk, causing Jean-Sebastian to reflect that the Minister should have seen this coming. After all, given the events of the morning and Jean-Sebastian's unique qualifications for the post, the Minister had to know Jean-Sebastian did not trust him and wanted to keep a closer eye on Harry and his interactions with anyone of authority in magical Britain. And although Fudge could not have known it of Jean-Sebastian, he was not the type of parent who was comfortable with sending his children off to another country for their schooling—he preferred a much closer arrangement; even if it was to a boarding school, he still wanted to reside in the same country. Unfortunately—or fortunately as the case may be—Fudge did not appear to have thought that far ahead.

"I'm not certain I can agree to this appointment, ambassador," Fudge responded finally. "The English Ministry does not particularly appreciate your heavy-handed style, and I am certain your appointment would harm relations between our two countries."

Jean-Sebastian laughed out loud at this pronouncement, causing Fudge's countenance to darken even further. "On the contrary, Minister, I enjoy an excellent relationship with the Chief Warlock of your Wizengamot," he nodded at Dumbledore, who returned the gesture with aplomb, "due in part to our previous association with the ICW. I'm familiar with most of your department heads and understand your traditions and customs, having lived here some years in my youth, and I am familiar with the operation of your Ministry due to various postings and experience working with your government over the years. It seems to me I am a very good candidate for the position, Minister. It is only _you_ who seems to have a problem with me."

"And it is _my_ government!" Fudge snapped. "You will have to go back to your Ministry and tell them to send someone else."

"_Your government?_" Jean-Sebastian responded with a snort of disdain. "Surely you do not consider yourself to _be_ the government, Minister? The Minister is merely a servant of the people, is he not?"

Fudge's eyes narrowed, and his lips curled with dislike. "You can be certain I will be speaking with your Minister about this."

A slight incline of his head indicated his feelings of complete unconcern. He then infuriated Fudge even further by glancing down and making a show of inspecting his fingernails, indicating his utter contempt for the British Minister. "Be my guest, Minister. My appointment was initiated by the French Ministry with the full support of our legislative branch, so I can assure you he will confirm everything I have told you. At the end of the day, unless you have some legal reason to deny me this posting, my government can appoint anyone they like to the post, with or without your approval."

A curt nod was the only thing which met Jean-Sebastian's declaration—Fudge obviously knew he was once again painted into a corner.

"My house-elves will begin to move my family's personal belongings into the Ambassador's Manor immediately. I will be at your service by Monday morning."

The nod was repeated, and although it was obvious Fudge was not happy with the development, he at least gathered enough dignity to avoid a repeat of his objections. Not that it would do him any good.

"Which brings me to my next point," Jean-Sebastian continued, turning to Dumbledore. "As my family will be living in England now, I would prefer to have all the children in my care attending the same school. As such, I will request to transfer Fleur to Hogwarts for her final year of schooling."

"Of course, ambassador," Dumbledore replied, even as the vein in Fudge's temple began to pulse. "Please have Madame Maxine provide you with a copy of Fleur's transcripts. I will instruct my deputy Headmistress to send an owl with her letter to you within the next few days. We would be happy to have the Beauxbatons champion attend our school this year."

Although he was conversing with Dumbledore, Jean-Sebastian kept an eye on Fudge, watching the man's displeasure deepen as the expression of fury stole over his face. He was intelligent enough to hold his tongue this time, but it did not take a genius to understand just exactly what Fudge objected to about Fleur's attendance at England's premier school. It was time to inform the Minister of exactly how things stood.

Jean-Sebastian allowed an expression of intense dislike and distaste to spread over his face as he glared at the Minister, noting the corresponding expression directed back at him. He smirked inwardly, perversely entertained at his ability to provoke a negative response in the pompous git.

"Minister, allow me to make myself rightly understood. Harry Potter is now my ward, and he and my daughter Fleur will be attending Hogwarts together this year. The ICW has voted overwhelmingly to support Harry—and his godfather, I might add—and any attempt from you or your government to undermine him or make trouble with me or my family will lead to increased tensions with France and isolation from the rest of the wizarding world. I suggest you tread softly…

"Or perhaps it's my daughter who has set off this latest fit of temper?"

"Your daughter has no business attending Hogwarts," the Minister blustered. "Our premier school is reserved for our best and brightest students, not for some… foreign—"

"I suggest you stop right there," Jean-Sebastian interrupted, his voice as cold as ice. "Do not think me ignorant of your petty British bigotry and your contempt for anyone who does not meet your pathetic standards of race and blood purity—your attempts to hide your objections behind the veneer of foreign discrimination are insulting and do not do you any favors. The fact that many of your compatriots meet your _exceedingly high_ standards for blood purity, bigotry, and contemptible snobbishness means nothing to me—or any other right-thinking person for that matter.

"Fleur is a highly skilled and competent witch, and regardless of your narrow-mindedness, she is every bit as _human_ as you or I. She is a champion of that cursed tournament you held in this very country for Merlin's sake!"

"And we all know how she did there!" Fudge snapped, his mouth twisted into an unpleasant sneer.

"Better, I suspect, than a squib like you would," Jean-Sebastian spat, feeling an almost overwhelming urge to hex the man to oblivion.

The Minister's eyes bugged out and he appeared ready to fling another retort, but Dumbledore stepped in to try to diffuse the situation.

"Minister, ambassador, I hardly think this is constructive. Cornelius, you are well aware that Hogwarts' charter does not allow for prospective students to be discriminated against due to blood status, race, nationality, or any other factor. Legally, if I have openings available in her year—which I do—I cannot refuse Miss Delacour entrance into our school—and I would not do so if the opportunity was there. She is a fine young woman, and you are well aware of the reasons for her performance in the tournament and the interference by Bartemius Crouch Jr. I have no doubt she will be a fine asset to Hogwarts and a pleasant addition to our ranks. Do not make this situation any more difficult by bringing up antiquated notions of blood purity or arguments regarding the status of Veela, which is what we all know this is about!"

Certain the Minister was about to burst a vein in his head, Jean-Sebastian regarded the minister with an eye of complete loathing, daring the man to do his worst. It was only a short time, though, before Fudge appeared to master himself and leave well enough alone. It was the first good decision the man had made the entire day.

"Fine!" Fudge spat out. "Your daughter may attend Hogwarts with the attention seeker. Now leave me—I have much work to do."

Jean-Sebastian stood, but he was unable to leave without a parting shot. He loomed over the Minister, aware his height and furious manner were intimidating to the hapless Fudge, who shrunk away in response.

"Let me be rightly understood," Jean-Sebastian growled in a voice absolutely dripping with menace, "I will brook no interference by you or anyone in your government. Don't try me, _Minister_," the word spat with every ounce of disdain Jean-Sebastian could muster, "you _will not_ enjoy the results."

He turned and stormed from the office and through the Minister's waiting room, beckoning to Harry as he strode past Fudge's startled assistant. Harry took one look at Jean-Sebastian's face and fell in behind him meekly, but although Jean-Sebastian did not want the boy to cower or feel intimidated, it was several minutes' walk down the hallways and up the stairwells of the Ministry building before his Occlumency skills were able to reassert themselves and he was able to master his towering fury toward the impotent and useless British Minister. Something would have to be done about the man, or the war was as good as lost already.

They had reached the Atrium before Jean-Sebastian finally slowed down and turned to Harry, noting the expression of confused apprehension on the boy's face. He smiled at Harry to show him he was not angry, reflecting that something would also have to be done about the boy's timidity and lack of confidence—such traits would do him no good in the face of the vile madman Voldemort.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but it appears your Minister is adept in bringing out the worst in me," Jean-Sebastian commented with a wry smile.

Harry's eyes lit up in relief and he returned the smile tentatively. "I can certainly understand that, sir."

"Now, Harry," Jean-Sebastian admonished, "what did we agree about calling me 'sir'?"

Harry's answering blush and stammered reply was were somewhat endearing, but they were still matters of concern to the ambassador. He wondered what the boy had put up with from his so-called relatives—Sirius had only known of the situation in the most general terms. It was definitely something which demanded his immediate attention once things began to settle down.

At that moment, Dumbledore strode up to them with a thoughtful expression on his face which belied the mad twinkling of his eyes.

"Not meaning to criticize," he said with good-natured amusement, "but you do realize you just insulted and threatened a head of state?"

Jean-Sebastian's answering sneer was almost feral. "Why should he be any different? The French Minister knows I will insult him too if he is being an ass!"

"Indeed," Dumbledore, shaking his head with mirth. Harry, Jean-Sebastian noticed, was looking a little lost but was still grinning at the mention of Fudge being insulted.

Jean-Sebastian sobered as quickly as his mirth had appeared. "What do you think the chances are that the Minister will do as he says and investigate Voldemort's return?"

"Slim," Dumbledore responded. "Alas, Fudge was once a good man and is still a passable peacetime minister, but I fear he has become too obsessed with maintaining his image and position and all the comforts, money, and adulation that go with it. It is far easier to hide and claim it cannot be so than to do the right thing. It would surprise me if this was anything more than a stalling tactic."

Jean-Sebastian nodded, expecting nothing else. "We will have to discuss this further, Headmaster, but not here." He peered around them at the bustle of the Ministry building, not trusting that any of those passing by might not be eavesdropping on him now. "I think a more private setting would be prudent."

"I presume you mean to take young Harry back to Delacour castle tonight?" Dumbledore asked with a smile at the young man.

"Yes," Jean-Sebastian responded. "I think he should get used to living with us. Besides, there is someone I think he would like to see waiting for him in France."

The responding smile lit up the young man's face, and he nodded emphatically, prompting both adults to smile in an indulgent manner.

"Then we had best get your belongings, Harry," Jean-Sebastian continued. "You can see Sirius tonight, and I will introduce you to the whole family. But don't worry—we will be back in England by the beginning of the week, so you can continue to see your friends."

The answering grin on Harry's face told Jean-Sebastian all he needed to know—he had handled the situation properly. He knew Harry had some very good friends whom he would not want to leave behind. Hopefully, these friends of his would become close to his own daughter as well—she could use the support herself.

* * *

The short journey back to Grimmauld Place was much easier than the trip to the Ministry had been by the simple expedient of the fact that they travelled by Floo rather than the longer Muggle method which had afforded Harry so much time to brood about his situation. Although he knew he had much to consider with the events of the morning, Harry was actually grateful he was not given the time to lose himself in his thoughts—he would need more than a few minutes to assimilate the changes in his life brought about by the morning's events. Now, all he wanted to do was to see his friends and then later in the day see his godfather.

The walk through the Atrium was as uncomfortable as the walk across it that morning had been, as yet again all the attention in the massive room was directed at Harry, making him uncomfortable and edgy. The difference was that whereas in the morning those gathered had largely stared at him and whispered to each other, this time the crowd was more positive, and more than one person had called out greetings and congratulations for the outcome of the trial. He shuddered to think of what it would have been like if he had suffered through a less successful outcome to Fudge's threats. He had learned the wizarding public as a whole tended to be a fickle entity, easily persuaded by the prevailing winds of opinion and recent events, fair or not.

They stopped momentarily near the Floo connection, where Dumbledore passed Jean-Sebastian a small piece of paper. After Jean-Sebastian nodded, they entered the Floo one by one, Dumbledore leading, leaving the Ministry building behind them.

As with every other time he had travelled using the infernal device, Harry, following Dumbledore through the connection, ended up in a heap on the floor at their destination.

Chuckling, a newly arrived Jean-Sebastian helped him to his feet. "I see I will have to teach you the proper way of travelling by Floo. We cannot have you ending up on the floor every time you use it, after all."

Harry thanked him as he stumbled to his feet, eager now to go to meet his friends and thank them for their support.

"Come, Harry—I believe everyone will be waiting for us in the parlor," Dumbledore stated, leading the way from the room.

The short walk to the parlor ended with Harry's vision being occluded by a head of rich brown hair when he was engulfed in one of Hermione's infamous hugs.

"We were so worried," she whispered in his ear, the raw emotion plain in her voice.

"Thanks, Hermione," Harry whispered back, choked with his own emotion. "Your support means everything."

He pulled back and noticed her watery eyes and the way in which she attempted to keep her feelings in check. She was always there for him, no matter what. Harry was uncertain what he had possibly done to deserve such a wonderful and steadfast friend.

His ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of the youngest Weasley boys as they crowded around him congratulating him for his escape, and laughing the way people often do when their relief is manifest in an emotional manner.

Ron said nothing, merely slapping him on the back in a comradely fashion, his face beaming at his friend. The twins, though, were a different story.

"Congratulations, Harry!" one exclaimed. "Trust you to wiggle your way out of another trap."

"And come out engaged to a beautiful girl at the same time!" the other finished.

Laughs were heard around the room as Moony and Tonks, along with Bill Weasley, gathered around to offer their congratulations as well. Harry snuck a look at Jean-Sebastian, curious as to what his reaction would be toward the irreverent manner in which the twins had spoken of his daughter, but he could detect nothing in the man's demeanor which would suggest displeasure. It appeared he was enjoying the antics of Harry's friends.

Looking around, Harry spotted Ginny and Mrs. Weasley, but although they both wore smiles, those smiles appeared somewhat forced. A fully confused Harry accepted congratulations from them both. He sensed they were happy that he had been exonerated, but also somewhat offended by something.

Introductions were made all around, with Jean-Sebastian greeting Harry's friends cordially, before his new guardian pulled him aside and in a low voice instructed him to get his things prepared for their departure. Harry nodded and left the room, his two closest friends in tow.

"So what now, mate?" Ron asked.

Climbing the stairs, Harry turned down the long hallway and made his way toward the room he shared with Ron, glancing wistfully over the dingy house which he and his friends had spent the past week so industriously cleaning—no amount of cleaning and scrubbing seemed to be able to dent the air of oppressive gloom which pervaded the dilapidated old house.

"I'm going to France today with Jean-Sebastian," Harry replied absently as they entered the bedroom. "Sirius is already there, and I'll be staying with him, Jean-Sebastian, and his family over the weekend."

Ron blinked. "Going to France?"

"Yeah, Jean-Sebastian wants me to stay with the family and get to know them."

The reactions of his friends were a study in contrasts. Hermione's face became slightly sad, a reflection, he felt, of her unhappiness that their time together this summer would be curtailed. Ron, on the other hand, seemed a little affronted by Harry's opportunity, before his gaze narrowed slightly and his eyes flickered to Hermione and his face assumed a small smirk of satisfaction.

Controlling himself, Harry made certain he did not glance at Hermione himself—it would not do to have Ron catch such a glance. And whatever his feelings were or could have been for his best friend, his betrothal to the young French witch now put any possibility of a relationship with Hermione out of their reach. It appeared Ron had gotten what he had wished—the attention of Hermione without the interference of a competing best friend to muddy the waters. Harry did not allow himself to feel anything over the matter; he would sort it out in his own mind later.

"Good for you, mate," Ron finally stated, a sort of smugness intruding in his manner. "I'll leave you to your packing—we'll see a lot of each other at school again this year."

Slapping Harry's back yet again, Ron exited the room, never noticing the raised eyebrows and slight smirks of his best friends. As the door closed behind him, they both burst out into soft laughter, making certain to keep it quiet so Ron could not hear their amusement, as they knew he would not take being laughed at, especially in a matter such as this, very well.

"I guess he doesn't need to watch us like a hawk any more, does he?" Harry quipped irreverently.

Hermione's laughter grew louder. "I guess not," she responded with a cheeky grin.

"So, are you going to give in and go out with him?" Harry asked. His manner was nonchalant, but he knew inside that the answer to this question was important to him for some indefinable reason. Or perhaps he was simply not willing to admit the reason.

"I don't know if I like him that way," she replied after a moment's thought. "Of course, you know Ron—he may never even get around to asking."

Chuckling at her portrayal of the young redhead, Harry pulled Hermione into another hug, earning himself a surprised expression from her.

Blushing slightly at his own forwardness, Harry reached down and grabbed his trunk. Dropping it on the bed, he began to stuff some of his belongings inside its confines. His possessions were still a little meager, he thought to himself as he put Dudley's old clothes into the trunk. An internal shrug later, he deposited his school stuff and the few items of his own he had managed to collect in the trunk, thinking he had done without many possessions his entire life. Why should now be any different?

Once the action had been completed, he closed the trunk and returned his gaze to his best friend, noting the slightly unsettled expression on the face of his dearest friend.

"Hey, are you all right?" Harry asked gently.

Hermione ducked her head, causing her hair to cascade down and hide her face, but not before Harry caught the faint pink of her cheeks. "I'm fine, Harry." She raised her head again, brushed her hair back behind an ear—an action which caught Harry's attention as one that he found uncommonly attractive—and peered at her friend. "I was just hoping to spend the rest of the summer with all my friends, and now you'll be in France until school starts."

"Don't worry, Hermione. Jean-Sebastian said we'll be back in England next week, so I'm sure we'll have a chance to spend time together again this summer. I'm not sure where we'll be staying, but I'm sure you could come and stay with us."

She smiled again. "I'd like that, Harry." Her mien became serious once again. "I'm glad we'll see you, but I'm concerned about you, Harry. How are you doing with all this?"

Shrugging, Harry gazed back at his friend. "It was a shock, I'll tell you that."

"You didn't know about it in advance?"

"I met Jean-Sebastian for the first time this morning," Harry affirmed, "though I think I remember seeing him with Fleur during the tournament."

"But how do you feel about it?" Hermione pressed. For some reason, the answer to this question seemed important to her.

"Well, it helps that she's cute," Harry responded with a hint of a mischievous grin.

Hermione rolled her eyes and glared at him. "Honestly, Harry, is that all you boys think about? I mean, Ron's comments about _suitable dates_ to the Yule Ball, and now you basing your future life on Fleur's looks. Do you ever think about anything else?"

"I'm I a guy, Hermione—what do you expect?" Harry responded, grinning cheekily. "You have to admit—the looks certainly do help. I mean, it could have been someone like Millicent Bulstrode or Pansy Parkinson."

The irreverent statement was completed with a theatrical shudder, causing Hermione to convulse into giggles at his antics.

"Harry James Potter! Will you be serious?"

"Well, if you insist," Harry drawled, giving her a look of long-suffering in response to her exasperation. She laughed and rolled her eyes before directing a baleful glare at him. Harry decided now might be the best time to be serious.

"To be honest," Harry mused after a moment, "I don't know what to think about it. I mean, it was done without my approval—something I'll be talking to Sirius about, I can tell you—but I'm also sure it was done with my best interests at heart. Jean-Sebastian and I had a talk after the trial, and he explained some of his motivations and his concerns for Fleur, so I understand why he did it."

"You'll have to tell me about it sometime."

"Of course."

It went without saying that there would be no secrets between Hermione and himself—they had never had any in the past, and he would not start distancing himself from her now, regardless of the existence of a marriage contract.

"I suppose I just have to think of it as an opportunity to expand my horizons and make connections outside of England—an alliance with one of the premier families of France is no small matter, and it may help some day against Voldemort."

He grinned somewhat mischievously at her before continuing, "You should be proud of me; I thought of that all by myself!"

Harry ducked as Hermione swatted at him in a playful manner, grinning the entire time like a Cheshire cat.

"On the other hand," he continued, in a somewhat more serious manner than before, "I don't really know Fleur. I mean, Jean-Sebastian explained a little about what her life has been like and why she is the way she is, but I have two memories of her which stand out in my mind: her snooty tone when she called me a little boy after my name came out of the goblet and the huge hug she gave me after I came out of the water with her sister. How am I to merge those two images in my head? It's almost like it was two different people."

"I understand," Hermione said with a nod. "I guess you have no choice but to get to know her."

"Yeah. That's one of the reasons why Jean-Sebastian wants to go back to France tonight. He told me to ask Fleur about herself and get to know her without any preconceived notions. He didn't want to tell me _about_ her; he wanted me to get it straight _from_ her. He _did_ tell me, though, that her arrogance is a mask and that she has trouble meeting people due to being a Veela. I need to get her perspective before I can know what she is like."

"It makes sense, Harry."

"I know." He sighed and looked at the ground. "I guess I don't have a choice, do I? She's my fiancée now—I'd better get to know her."

That truth acknowledged, they sat in companionable silence for several moments. Although so much had changed in the past few hours, Harry was happy, knowing that no matter what happened, he could always count on the support of his closest friends, especially Hermione. He supposed he would eventually have to transfer his allegiance to Fleur, but for now, Hermione was by far the most important person in his life.

"So what's with Ginny and Mrs. Weasley?" he asked after a moment's thought. "They seemed offended about something."

Hermione just shook her head and gazed fondly at her friend. "Honestly, Harry, you boys are completely thick about some things, aren't you?"

"When it comes to girls, you bet," Harry shot back. "Like Ron says, 'daft—completely daft!'"

This, of course, earned him a roll of Hermione's eyes. "If you'd open your eyes once in a while, you wouldn't think that. They were mad about your change in status, dear Harry. You must have noticed Ginny has had a crush on you forever, and Mrs. Weasley has been eying you as potential son-in-law material for just as long. Longer, I would think, since she told bedtime stories of you to Ginny when she was little."

Harry's eyes felt like they were bugging out of his sockets. "Ginny?" he sputtered incredulously. "How… I mean… what… But I hardly know her! And she's never in the room long enough for me to talk to her or anything. She just squeaks and runs off!"

"And what do you think that means?"

Harry was certain his expression was comical, given Hermione's giggles, but he was not certain where she was going with this.

"She's shy? Or she doesn't like me?"

A huff of irritation met his declaration, and he got the distinct impression Hermione thought him rather slow.

"Harry, do you even use that thing on the top of your shoulders? It's amazing you can even see Ron's feelings for me."

An even more confused Harry stared open-eyed at his friend. "Come on, Hermione, Ron is obvious, considering the way he was watching us and the cow eyes he makes at you when he thinks you're not looking. Besides, he implied as much to me several times, no doubt trying to warn me away from you."

"Oh, he did, did he?" Hermione responded, her voice flat and disapproving. "Maybe I'll need to have a talk with Mr. Weasley and let him know I don't appreciate his claim on me like I was some sort of… _object_ or something."

_ That_ was certainly something Harry did not want to deal with—Harry had learned over the years they had been friends to stay out of Ron and Hermione's arguments, not to mention the fact that Ron would be infuriated if he knew the content of this conversation. "If you do, you heard nothing from me!"

A withering glance once again flew in his direction, but Hermione said nothing further on the subject—she merely huffed yet again and directed her gaze at Harry, her manner suggesting she considered him to be somewhat of a simpleton.

"Harry, the reason she won't say anything to you is because she has a crush on you and is too shy to be able to talk to you. She's always been completely infatuated with you and doesn't want you to get the wrong impression of her. She's been fed stories of the Boy-Who-Lived since she was a little girl, and your escapade in the chamber during your second year only solidified you in her mind as her perfect mate."

_ Another Boy-Who-Lived groupie,_ Harry thought with some disgust.

His expression must have shown his feelings, as Hermione quickly reached over and placed her hand on his wrist. "Harry, I'm not suggesting she's after you just for your fame, but she _has_ had a crush on you for years. In time, she will probably get over her infatuation and become easier for you to get to know—I don't think she's the kind of person to be interested in you for just your fame."

Harry nodded, but he was still a little sour on the whole idea—he had had enough of people looking at him, seeing nothing more than the boy who had survived a killing curse ever since he had entered this world. He certainly did not need the little sister of one of his closest friends joining the chorus.

Still, if Hermione was convinced of Ginny's character, he supposed he could give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, it didn't really matter anymore anyway—even if Ginny was nothing more than a fan-girl, he was now betrothed.

"Thanks for the explanation, Hermione," he finally responded, regarding his friend somewhat sheepishly. "I guess I never really thought about it."

"Clueless," Hermione responded with a smirk. "You boys are clueless."

"About some things, I guess," Harry responded with a good-natured smile on his face. "But I think we'll need to continue this conversation another time—Jean-Sebastian wants to get back to France. I should get going."

Although she appeared to prefer that he not have to leave so soon, Hermione nodded her agreement, and they exited the room. A short flight of stairs later, they had once again entered the parlor, where the rest of the group awaited them.

The room was quiet, with the occupants divided into several groups, all talking softly to one another—Jean-Sebastian and Dumbledore along with Tonks, Moony and a recently arrived Mr. Weasley, were speaking near the Floo connection, the twins were with Ron, and Bill was watching his brothers' antics with a slight grin on his face. Given Ron's red face and somewhat strangled voice, Harry suspected Fred and George were giving their youngest brother a rough time yet again. And in a corner furthest from the fireplace, Mrs. Weasley and Ginny sat close together, murmuring to each other and casting reproachful looks at the other end of the room, presumably toward Harry's new guardian, if he was any judge. Harry frowned slightly at them, still not completely comfortable with the situation of which Hermione had just made him aware.

Shrugging, he put them from his mind—there would be time enough to deal with Ginny later, if indeed there was any such need. For now, it was time to leave.

With Hermione in tow, Harry crossed the room and approached the largest group in the room. "I'm ready, Jean-Sebastian."

"Excellent." Jean-Sebastian turned to Dumbledore. "If you would, Headmaster, I would like to visit Harry's old guardians and gather whatever he has left there."

"Of course. I can apparate you both there and then you can return and use the Floo in this house to return to the Ministry and the International Floo Network."

"Excuse me," Mrs. Weasley's voice interrupted, "but Harry was to stay with here for the rest of the summer."

Harry turned to regard his friend's mother, noting that a frown crossed Jean-Sebastian's face as he did the same. Still, his voice was nothing less than cordial as he responded.

"That may have been the plan previously, Madam, but the situation has now changed. Harry will be returning to Delacour castle with me this evening and staying with his godfather and my family for the rest of the summer."

"But what about his friends?"

The tightening of Jean-Sebastian's mouth was visible to Harry, but his reply was as genial as before. "I have no intention whatsoever to prohibit Harry from seeing his friends. I have accepted the position of Ambassador to England, so we will move here by the beginning of next week. After that, Harry will only be a Floo connection away from his friends and can visit at any time. In fact, we would be more than happy to have them stay with us whenever they would like—we are very grateful he has had such close friends to help him through his time in Hogwarts. But for now, he will return to France with me and get to know his new family. And I think he would like to see his godfather…"

Harry blushed and returned Jean-Sebastian's questioning gaze with tentative smile. "I'd like to see Sirius. And I think I should get to know Fleur as well."

The responding smile was one of genuine affection, which caused Harry to duck his head in embarrassment. But Mrs. Weasley was still not convinced.

"But surely he should be with his friends—"

"I beg your pardon, madam," Jean-Sebastian interjected, cutting her off before she could get going, "but I think I am aware of what is best for my ward. Harry needs to get to know his betrothed and his new family."

"We're his family," Mrs. Weasley snapped.

The full force of Jean-Sebastian's glare was now directed at the Weasley matron, and while she was clearly uncomfortable at being the focus of his displeasure, she responded gamely with a glare of her own.

"I hardly think Harry considers you his family, given what I know of the time he has spent in your company over the past several years."

She began stuttering in response, but Jean-Sebastian did not allow her to get started. "Please, Mrs. Weasley, Harry has stayed with you for what—a few weeks in the summer? And I know you were gone most of the summer before his third year. He can hardly have become like another son to you in so short a time, unless you have some other reason for claiming him."

With an almost audible snap, her mouth closed, but the glower never left her face. Jean-Sebastian, however, appeared unconcerned.

"As I stated before, I am thankful for the efforts of your family and others of Harry's acquaintance," he nodded to Dumbledore and Remus, "for their support and assistance to Harry, but one day, Harry will be _my _son-in-law. At the present time, he is my responsibility and will eventually be part of _my_ family."

His tone left no room for disagreement. Although she was still visibly upset, Mrs. Weasley nodded her head in understanding and rose from her chair, approaching Harry with a warm smile on her face.

"Harry, dear, remember we are your friends and would be happy to have you stay with us at any time. We will see you next week when you return from France."

She hugged him briefly and then, after favoring Jean-Sebastian with an imperious glance, stalked out of the parlor. Harry smiled at Jean-Sebastian's raised eyebrow, indicating his readiness to depart. Saying a quick goodbye to his friends, he gathered his trunk and followed him out down the hallway and through the front door, eager to see Sirius and start his new life.

* * *

_Updated 03/01/2013  
_


	5. Chapter 4 – Plots and Conversations

**Chapter 4 – Plots and Conversations**

The general public, especially the wizarding public, was at best a rather capricious entity. What was popularity and adulation one day was no guarantee of the same in the next, no matter the stature of the individual in question.

Harry Potter was a prime example of the changeable nature of the opinion of the masses. Revered for an event he could not even remember, Harry Potter entered Diagon Alley as an eleven-year-old to the adulation of the masses he had not only never met, but also had not even known of before that day. His entrance into the hallowed halls of Hogwarts was no different, generating whispers and pointed fingers, not to mention cheers from Gryffindor house when he had been sorted there and groans from all the others.

Yet by the middle of his second year, the cheers and shouts of acclamation had turned to angry mutters and rumors of his complicity in the Chamber of Secrets fiasco. But once the mystery of the chamber had been solved, his entry back into the good books of the masses had been immediate—at least until his entry into the Tri-Wizard Tournament, where he had been branded an attention seeker and glory hound.

Truly, as Harry had mused only that morning, it was not only tough at times to be Harry Potter, but it was also difficult being anyone who was in the public eye.

Of course, the Minister of Magic was no exception to this rule—in fact the masses traditionally had a love/hate relationship with the Minister. As with the coach of a professional Quidditch team, the prevailing attitude amongst the Minister's supporters tended to be, "What have you done for me lately?"

Cornelius Fudge sat in the comfortable confines of his office, deliberating over the injustices which were sometimes heaped upon the shoulders of the Minister in general and himself in particular.

As a new Minister, Fudge had generally enjoyed good popularity, in part, whether he admitted it or not, because he was _not_ Millicent Bagnold. Not that the previous Minister was reviled—far from it. But she had always been perceived as a gruff, no-nonsense type who was a stickler for the rules, and she had governed with an eye toward improving the wizarding government so it more fully represented the people it purported to serve. In short, she was considered a progressive reformer. While this would normally have been a position which would have endeared her to the masses, Bagnold's style of governance was closely mirrored by her personality—at least, by what personality she actually possessed, some cynics were known to remark. It was truly a shame she had had virtually no people skills, as a bit of charisma could have allowed her to connect closer to the populace and create a much more effective engine for change in the British wizarding world.

Unfortunately, she had not an ounce of charisma, which was why although her policies generally made her administration a friend of the people, she herself had never really enjoyed a great deal of popularity. And, of course, her policies had made her an enemy of the Pureblood faction, as their ideals supported only one thing: their own agenda, which was concerned with nothing more than improving their own lot to the detriment of all others. Although small in number, a disproportionate percentage of the wealth in the wizarding world rested in the hands of the Purebloods, rendering them the most powerful faction in Britain. Even more importantly, however, was the fact that the seats of the Wizengamot were all hereditary and, once again, largely held by old Pureblood families.

The result of this was that Bagnold, although she had had a certain amount of success pushing through her more progressive agenda, had been thwarted in many of her endeavors by a hostile Wizengamot. Even Dumbledore, once he had become Chief Warlock, had only been able to provide so much assistance. Eventually, she had resigned and left the country, tired of fighting the constant battle against a foe who was implacable and capable of using its massive wealth and influence to maintain as much of the status quo as possible.

Enter Fudge and the nature of the Ministry had changed. Although Fudge had campaigned on a platform which was somewhat more conservative than the one over which Bagnold had presided for the previous ten years, he had privately made it known to certain Wizengamot members that he was open for business—translation: his support and policies could be bought by anyone who was willing to provide a… pecuniary incentive. As only the members of the Wizengamot had a vote for the next Minister, the above had perhaps been Fudge's greatest political maneuver—the combination of those members who felt he would slow down the changes to their society to a more manageable level and those who knew they could buy his support for the right amount of Galleons had been enough to tip the scales and ensure his election.

Unfortunately, he had been in office less than six months before it was generally understood that he was a lame duck Minister, one who had no agenda whatsoever beyond the acceptance of massive bribes in return for his interference in the business of all branches of his government.

Of course, his greatest contributor had always been the Malfoy family, which seemed to have money to burn. Lucius Malfoy had paid him bribes for everything from the support of his extremist bills presented before the Wizengamot (necessary due to the fact that the Malfoy family, although extremely wealthy, were of French descent and had no seat) to buying Fudge's obstruction of various departments who might otherwise have been investigating his family's activities.

Of course, it completely escaped Fudge's attention that Malfoy really did not need Fudge at all—Malfoy's Pureblood friends on the Wizengamot were able to introduce his proposed laws and actions without the assistance of the Minister if he so chose. If Fudge had ever thought to look into the matter, he would have noticed that many of the actions which he sponsored were defeated, and he would have come to the conclusion that often he was used as a decoy.

Or perhaps Fudge would not have cared even then—his primary concern, of course, had always been the money which made its way from Malfoy's vault into his own. Whether Malfoy succeeded or not really meant nothing to the Minister—all that mattered to Fudge was that he was paid well for what he did.

On this day, however, Fudge felt his popularity had fallen into an abyss, what with his failed persecution of young Harry Potter. It was a valuable lesson to learn—before taking on one of the nation's greatest heroes, you needed to make certain you had an airtight case. Especially when said hero was being supported by another.

That Dumbledore had staged the entire session with that despicable French wizard was beyond contradiction in Fudge's opinion. And worse, Fudge felt it was all calculated to make him look as bad as they possibly could—and in that endeavor, they had succeeded in spades.

What bothered Fudge was that he was uncertain of just what Dumbledore's aims were. Was he merely trying to get the Potter brat off, or was he aiming for something more? Had he designs on the Minister's office for himself or one of his cronies? The fact that the Minister's office had been Dumbledore's for the taking when Bagnold resigned (if he'd only declared his candidacy rather than refusing due to lack of interest and contentment with his current positions) did not occur to the Minister.

No, Fudge was certain that Dumbledore was up to something and that whatever it was, it could not be beneficial for Fudge's long-term residence in the Minister's office.

_Two can play that game!_ Fudge snarled to himself.

It was time to fight back.

"Minister? Minister, did you hear me?"

Fudge blinked and focused his eyes. Across his desk sat the annoying pink woman whose grating high-pitched voice had interrupted his ruminations. Umbridge was a menace, but he had promoted her for one reason only—she blindly fell in with whatever schemes he promoted, if only to further her own agenda of bigotry and hate, something which although Fudge did not espouse, he had no particular disliking for either. Unfortunately, despite her usefulness, he could only take her in small doses, as her voice was aggravating and her constant harping was not especially conducive to his own agenda of enriching himself.

"I'm sorry, Madam Undersecretary—I'm afraid my mind wandered for a moment. What were you saying?"

She gave Fudge an imperious glare. "I had finished my report on the plans for my time at Hogwarts, Minister. But I believe I may have a plan to deal with the Delacour girl before the next school year starts."

Privately, Fudge doubted she could do anything to influence the Veela's attendance in any way, but he had not stayed in power as long as he had by ignoring the schemes of his underlings. He motioned for her to continue, nodding thoughtfully and responding in monosyllables when she seemed to be expecting it.

All in all, it was something which might have succeeded if it had been thought of several months before. In the current environment, though, Fudge was certain she would have difficulty pulling it off—Dumbledore would crush her without a second thought.

Yet anything which diverted Dumbledore's attention was welcome in Fudge's opinion. For him, the main thrust was her installment at Hogwarts as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and the slow and careful way in which he would have her take over the school… _that_ would have to be handled with delicacy. The fact that Umbridge had no true mastery of the subject and had indeed been an indifferent and pampered student at best when she had attended did not even enter into the equation in Fudge's eyes. Her use to him in the school was to find a way to have Dumbledore removed and to ensure Fudge was not challenged as Minister.

Of course, the scheme she had come up with to deal with this most vexing news of the Delacour girl's entrance into Hogwarts would be annoying for his opponents, although a little ham-fisted. He immediately threw his support behind her endeavors.

"Very well, Undersecretary, you have my permission to proceed," Fudge responded magnanimously. "Thank you for your time and efforts."

Umbridge's answering smile was most unpleasant, and Fudge shuddered as she scurried from the office. The woman made even _him_ uncomfortable!

* * *

In the north of Britain, an old manor building stood. It was the old estate manor of some landowner long forgotten in the mists of time, a reminder of the way things had once been in the kingdom. The building was still standing and in relatively good shape, which was surprising considering the years of neglect and indifference it had suffered. If one looked closely enough, a hint of its former glory could still be seen in the chipped and cracked marble floors and in the faded and peeling wallpaper—it had obviously been the home of a family of some wealth and consequence.

Now, it was the home to people of a much less savory reputation. The newly reconstituted dark lord Tom Marvolo Riddle, or the self-styled Lord Voldemort, now made the old house his base of operations.

Voldemort was indifferent as to his surroundings or the state of the old house—if things had been different, he could just as easily have made the manor of his Riddle ancestors his home. Unfortunately, the escape of Harry Potter from the Little Hangleton cemetery and the house's proximity to the site of his rising meant the location was now compromised, necessitating his removal and relocation. It was an irritant, no more, no less, and the dark lord knew there were better things with which to concern himself than creature comforts and the location of his lair. Soon, the British wizarding world would be his once again, and locations such as this crumbling, ramshackle old building would mean nothing to him.

His minions were currently out doing his bidding, all except the groveling fool Pettigrew, who was now in an upstairs room keeping watch for any hint of trouble. Voldemort did not think anyone would find him here, but he had not become one of the most feared and hated men in the history of the wizarding world by being careless.

Left to his own devices, the dark lord immediately settled into one of the things he did best—he plotted and pondered his next moves.

This new news of French involvement with Harry Potter was troubling. Not that he had expected Fudge's persecution (at Lucius' urging, of course) to succeed—on the contrary, he had firmly expected Dumbledore to crush the Minister's initiative with little or no trouble. The manner in which Fudge's defeat had occurred had been unexpected, though, and although Voldemort had no proof whatsoever, he was certain the way it had played out had been orchestrated by Dumbledore for some particular purpose which Voldemort was not yet able to see. After all, Dumbledore had allowed this French ambassador to do most of the talking and the tearing apart of Fudge's arguments, and though it was possible that age was finally catching up to the old man, Voldemort did not think that was the case. Dumbledore's actions in the past several years suggested the man was still fully in control of his magical and mental capacities. Dumbledore had not gotten to where he was today by being a political lightweight.

The dark lord bared his lips in an unsightly sneer. Voldemort's own rise to power had certainly not been characterized by incompetence—even his enemies were willing to allow him that much. Dumbledore was a worthy opponent; he would definitely have to be removed in order to ensure Voldemort's ultimate victory.

No, whatever Dumbledore was playing at, Voldemort was certain it had been planned and executed meticulously, with nothing left to chance, which meant that Dumbledore had some purpose in orchestrating the incident. Did it have to do with bringing the French into the conflict as allies, or did he have some other more… esoteric purpose which the dark lord had yet to discover?

No matter—eventually Dumbledore would be forced to tip his hand, and the dark lord would be ready for him. Besides, two could play at that game—Voldemort was certain there were just as many discontented Purebloods in France as there were in Britain.

The problem of Potter was a tricky one; twice now he had defied and defeated, or at the very worst escaped from a fully constituted dark lord at the height of his powers. It was troubling to say the least. Perhaps there was more to the prophecy which Voldemort had not considered yet. Perhaps there was more to it than he had been led to believe. It would bear some further thought.

As for the meddling foreigner, he would have to be taught in the harshest manner possible about the perils of involving himself in a matter which was not of his concern. A message would have to be sent, an indication of what would happen if he continued on his course of supporting the boy—it was imperative that Harry Potter be as isolated from the rest of the wizarding world as possible. Malfoy's job was to sow the seeds, in the matter of the trial, among other plans, of young Harry's disenchantment from the general public. _That_ was the most important consideration right now.

Yes, a message would be sent—one to strike fear in the hearts of his enemies. It need not be done immediately; they could afford to wait several months if necessary, before the right circumstance presented itself. He would have to speak to Lucius and arrange it. The dark lord smiled unpleasantly—the world would again learn to fear the name of Voldemort.

* * *

Dumbledore apparated them to a small park not far from the Dursleys' home, and once they had ensured their arrival had not been witnessed, Dumbledore and Jean-Sebastian shook hands and the Headmaster disapparated away.

Smiling at Harry, Jean-Sebastian motioned for him to lead the way to his relatives' house, noting with a frown the look of trepidation which appeared on Harry's face.

"I don't think I've left anything behind," Harry began softly, his eyes never meeting Jean-Sebastian's face. "Maybe we could go straight to France?"

Regarding his ward, Jean-Sebastian thought again about his scant knowledge of Harry's life with his relatives, understanding that this reaction was more evidence of the fact that it had _not_ been a good life. Whatever Harry's reservations were, they would need to be addressed and their effects resolved so his future son-in-law could move on with his life.

"Perhaps not," Jean-Sebastian replied, "but I would prefer to make certain. In any case, we should at least inform them of your change in status and let them know you will never live with them again."

"Like they care," Harry muttered under his breath—Jean-Sebastian had to strain to hear Harry's words, frowning when he realized the implications. He would need to find out sooner rather than later the details of Harry's upbringing.

Turning with some abruptness, Harry began walking down the street, prompting Jean-Sebastian to pursue him. "They won't like us showing up, sir," he said, his voice quiet. "They've never wanted to have anything to do with my world before."

"Do not worry, Harry. I can deal with them. They cannot be any worse than dealing with Fudge."

Harry threw a wry grin back at his companion, and they chuckled together, Jean-Sebastian happy he had been able to release the tension in his charge.

The distance was short, and soon they arrived at a sleepy-looking street. A row of Muggle houses met Jean-Sebastian's gaze, and although the area appeared to be a little older, the houses were generally neat and in good repair. It was like any other Muggle neighborhood, with nothing that suggested it was anything out of the ordinary—of course, it had housed the most famous wizard in magical Britain for almost the last fourteen years of his life, which made it remarkable, to the wizarding world at least.

The house to which Harry led them was as commonplace as the rest—it looked comfortable, but not overly large, and it had well manicured lawns and foliage in good repair.

They went to the front door, at which Harry raised his hand and knocked, an action which surprised Jean-Sebastian He would have thought, having lived there for many years, Harry would just walk in the front door, but it appeared that either something had happened which had revoked his rights to such an action, or he had never really felt welcome in the first place.

At length, the door swung open, revealing a young boy about Harry's age. Though Jean-Sebastian knew he must be Harry's cousin, there was virtually no family resemblance, as the boy was stocky to Harry's rather slender frame—the two also had very different features.

"Hi, Dud," Harry greeted the young man somewhat diffidently.

The young man's eyes narrowed and he glanced over his shoulder in a furtive manner. "Harry, what are you doing here?"

"We've come to pick up my things and talk to your Mum and Dad," Harry said, his voice quavering slightly in nervousness.

"Dad doesn't want you here anymore. He said you're not welcome."

Jean-Sebastian decided it was time to intervene. "Mr. Dursley, I assure you we will not be staying long. I simply need to speak with your parents, after which Harry and I will leave. Will you please call them?"

Dudley appeared to consider this momentarily before opening the door fully and motioning for them to follow him. "You can sit in the living room—I'll call Mum and Dad," he said over his shoulder.

Following Harry, Jean-Sebastian entered the house. A short walk through the entranceway brought them to a comfortable living area filled with Muggle gadgets. As a Pureblood, Jean-Sebastian had grown up in the wizarding world, but he had more knowledge about the Muggle world than most of his contemporaries. After all, they shared the world with Muggles and were vastly outnumbered by them—it seemed only prudent to know about them and their customs. The one thing which did catch his attention was the lack of anything which would suggest that more than one boy had ever lived in this house—there were pictures of the young Dursley aplenty, but not a single image of Harry could be found in the entire room. Such an oversight did nothing to calm Jean-Sebastian's fears over the manner in which the young man had been treated over the years.

They took a seat on a couch, and it was only moments before an enormous man with a walrus mustache and a thin woman with blond hair entered into the room. Their faces clearly showed their anger, but they kept their temper in check with some effort.

"Boy! I told you when you left that you were no longer welcome in this house, and now you're bringing your freak friends with you?"

Jean-Sebastian's face went stony, and he regarded the fat man as though he were a slug. "Mr. Dursley, I presume?"

The fat man grudgingly nodded his head and glared at them. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get out!"

"Mr. Dursley, I am Jean-Sebastian Delacour, and believe me, nothing will please me more than to take Harry away from here and never return," Jean-Sebastian responded, his voice the icy chill of a winter wind. "But Harry's circumstances have changed, and I think you have a right to know. Shall we sit and discuss this like adults?"

"We don't care what happens to the freak," Mrs. Dursley spoke up with some distaste. "Our Dudders was almost killed by those creatures. Having him here is dangerous."

A scornful laugh escaped Jean-Sebastian's lips and he stood and turned the full force of his glare on the bad-mannered couple. "Do you really think you could stop Dumbledore if he decided Harry needed to stay here again?"

The woman's face became white at his suggestion, while the fat man's face purpled in anger. "We don't care! Get out!"

"Sit down!" Jean-Sebastian thundered, whipping out his wand and pointing it at them. They paled and muttered but sat as asked, although their faces still showed the petulant anger of truly small-minded people.

"Now, we will sit down and converse like rational adults," Jean-Sebastian enunciated clearly. "There will be no further outbursts about 'freaks' or any of the other names you have called Harry over the years."

His voice was stern and uncompromising, and although Jean-Sebastian had the impression Harry's relatives had rarely been spoken to in such a manner, they grudgingly nodded their heads in assent while stealing apprehensive glances at his wand, which was still held in his hand.

"Thank you. I understand there was an incident this summer before Harry left your care."

At their nods, Jean-Sebastian continued. "He has been exonerated for his actions during that incident, but due to certain circumstances, his guardianship has changed, and he will no longer be required to live with you."

He witnessed as the man and woman exchanged a glance with each other, triumphant grins passing across their face.

"Good!" the woman finally exulted. "We never wanted the little fre… our nephew to live with us anyway—that Headmaster of his forced him on us and we had no choice."

"We want nothing further to do with your strange world!" the man continued, his voice forceful and unpleasant. "You people aren't natural, and _his_ parents weren't any better. We'll be happy to be rid of him!"

Jean-Sebastian leaned back and studied the three of them for a moment, feeling more resignation and annoyance at their attitude than any true anger—he had seen this behavior many times, although since he was a magical, he had usually seen magicals disparaging Muggles rather than the reverse. Still, it did not take a genius to see the blatant bigotry and hatred these people harbored for something they could not possibly understand. It was good that Jean-Sebastian had intervened when he had, as this life could not have been comfortable for Harry.

Glancing sidelong at his new ward, Jean-Sebastian considered the situation and wondered if the situation had been what he had seen here, or if the Dursleys had been more… physical in their treatment of the young boy. His eyes narrowed as he saw Harry's slumped posture and the way he would not meet his relatives' eyes. It was difficult to tell, but Jean-Sebastian determined he would get to the bottom of it and swore that these ignorant people would pay if they had abused the young man.

In the interim of Jean-Sebastian's thoughts, silence had stretched on in the room, a silence which had clearly become uncomfortable for the couple sitting opposite, although their son did not seem to mind—he was openly gazing at his cousin, as though he had never truly seen him before. It was petty, but Jean-Sebastian took a perverse amount of pleasure in their unease, allowing the silence to continue as he merely gazed at the couple, his contempt showing in his expression which was tinged with distaste.

"Should you not be thanking your nephew for his actions?" he queried at last. "If not for Harry's actions, your son would have been killed by those Dementors."

"And if he wasn't here, your freaky creatures would never have been here either," Mr. Dursley snarled in response. "He's been nothing but trouble since he showed up, and we're well rid of him."

"He did save me, dad," Dudley spoke up suddenly.

From the looks Dudley received from not only his father and mother but also Harry, Jean-Sebastian deduced that Dudley backing Harry up was an uncommon, if not unheard of, event. The young man, however, ignored the looks he was receiving from his parents and kept his gaze focused on Harry, an earnest and almost pleading expression on his features. Harry returned his gaze with a questioning one of his own, before finally relaxing and slumping slightly in his seat with a half smile on his face.

"Don't worry about it, Dud. It was no problem."

Mr. Dursley's snort met Harry's statement, but Harry ignored it, seeming to be relieved and somewhat happier over the situation. Jean-Sebastian strongly suspected he was happy to have finally received some measure of approbation from at least one of his relatives, even if it had been bought at the price of a life-threatening situation.

"Mr. Dursley, I fully understand you would like us to leave, so I'll get right to the point. I am not impressed with what I've seen here today and what I've heard about Harry's home life—you clearly know nothing about nurturing a young man properly, and if I didn't consider you to be worth nothing more than an ant to crush beneath my boots, I might take offense to the things you have said today."

Mrs. Dursley paled, while her husband's face purpled in anger, but Jean-Sebastian ignored them. "Be that as it may, I am happy to say that Harry will never have to suffer your presence again. I will certainly never allow him to return here, and I cannot imagine him ever wanting to return once he comes of age."

A single glance at Harry, showing the boy's slightly anxious expression and furtive glances in the direction of the front door, told him what he already knew—Harry would undoubtedly be quite happy to never return to his relatives' house again.

"But be that as it may, I felt it only prudent to advise you of the change in Harry's status and the fact that he will not be returning. He is now betrothed to my daughter and will be my ward until his guardian is once again fit to resume his duties. Therefore, he will not be requiring your hospitality any longer."

"Once a freak, always a freak," Mr. Dursley responded with a sneer. "Imagine! Magic and betrothals! It's all freakiness, I tell you!"

His beady eyes fixed on Harry, and an unpleasant leer came over his face. "So, you had to go and get someone else to get you a betrothal to get yourself a girl, did you, boy? Couldn't get a girl on your own with your freakiness? I bet she's short and warty—a true witch!"

Mr. Dursley's laugh grated on Jean-Sebastian's nerves, but he said nothing, merely removing a Muggle-style picture from his wallet and enlarging it until it was the size of a large painting. "This is my daughter, Fleur, who is now engaged to Harry. I don't think she has any warts, to the best of my knowledge. However, she may turn you into a toad if you were to suggest such a thing to her face, so I suggest you keep your opinions firmly to yourself."

The mouths of all three Dursleys dropped as they gazed at the picture of his daughter, causing Jean-Sebastian to chuckle in response—as a father, he was proud of his daughters' beauty and Veela heritage, even while he had worried about the effect that heritage would have on potential suitors. Harry was truly a godsend to the French ambassador.

After a moment, Mr. Dursley turned red and he began to stutter with rage while his wife regarded Harry as if she had never seen him before. The youngest Dursley could hardly take his eyes off the picture, although he did glance at Harry with a new respect in his eyes.

Shrinking the picture once again and replacing it in his wallet, Jean-Sebastian regarded the abysmal family with some distaste. "Once we leave this place, it will be up to Harry as to whether or not you will ever see him again. When he comes of age, I will leave that decision up to him."

"Just take him and go," Mr. Dursley said in a gruff tone of voice once he had recovered somewhat from his anger. "The only thing that will make us happy is if we don't have to deal with you lot again."

"We will, Dursley," Jean-Sebastian responded. "But I also feel it necessary to warn you as well."

Dursley passed a weary hand over his face. "Why can't you freaks just take a hint and understand where you're not wanted? We didn't want to have anything to do with _him_," Dursley jabbed a finger at Harry, "but your Headmaster wouldn't hear of anything else. We wanted him to live normally without all his parents' freakiness, but we were forced to send him to that school. Why do you people insist on doing this to us?"

Astonished at the rudeness and tenacity of this man, Jean-Sebastian was tempted to do exactly what he asked—leave them to their fate. However, his sense of responsibility demanded he deliver his message before he quit the place entirely. Besides, Dumbledore had convinced Jean-Sebastian that regardless of the Dursleys' worthiness as guardians or their worth as human beings, they deserved to be warned, due to the fact that they _were_ Harry's relations.

"Mr. Dursley, are you familiar with the story of Lord Voldemort?"

Mrs. Dursley gasped. "Wasn't he that madman who was after Lily?"

Jean-Sebastian inclined his head. "He was after the whole family, yes, but more specifically after Harry, I suspect."

Although his wife seemed to understand what Jean-Sebastian was talking about, Mr. Dursley appeared to be completely at a loss. "What are you talking about?"

"Lily told me about him before she died," Mrs. Dursley told her husband. "He was after them for some reason or another—he's the one who killed them."

With a grunt, Dursley glared across at the two wizards. "What about him? He died back then—what does he have to do with anything now?"

Turning to Harry, Jean-Sebastian raised an eyebrow at Harry.

"They don't want to hear anything I have to say," Harry muttered defensively. "Even if I tried to tell them, they wouldn't have listened."

Turning back to the Dursleys, Jean-Sebastian sized them up. He suspected they might not give any weight to what he was about to tell them, but he decided it was on their heads if they did not. He could only warn them—they would need to do the rest.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, we are here today not only to tell you that Harry will be leaving your residence but also to warn you that you may be in danger if you stay here. This Voldemort who tried to kill Harry when he was a baby has recently returned, and if he learns of your relationship with Harry, he may try to get to Harry though you. Now, you and I both know that there are virtually no familial feelings between you and your nephew, but Voldemort certainly will not know that."

"But he died!" Mr. Dursley scoffed. "Would you have us fear a dead man?"

"He did _not _die," Jean-Sebastian responded evenly. "Through unknown means, he managed to cheat his fate and has recently returned to Britain, intent on picking up where he left off. When he left Harry here as a baby, Dumbledore erected a set of protections which not only kept young Harry safe but also kept _you and your family_ safe. But a condition of these protections is that he must be present for part of the summer for them to be effective. Harry will not be returning next year to reset the wards, which means they will fade away some time next summer. Once that happens, this house will be visible once again to the magical world, and if Voldemort ever makes the connection between Harry and your family, you will all be in great danger."

"I'm sure we can reason with him if he does show up," Mr. Dursley claimed rather nonchalantly. "If he hates the boy as much as we do, I'd think he would award us a medal for getting him out of the house."

"Vernon, I think we should consider the warning," his wife spoke up, her eyes bright with fear.

"Frankly, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, it matters little to me if you heed the warning or not," Jean-Sebastian replied with a shrug. "I have done my duty. But I strongly suggest you listen to me and take steps to protect your family. Voldemort does not reason with or reward Muggles… he kills them. It is your choice, but I urge you not to underestimate him. Harry and I will collect his remaining belongings and leave you now."

Rising to his feet, Jean-Sebastian motioned for Harry to precede him from the room, but they were interrupted by Dudley's fearful voice.

"There isn't anything of Harry's left here. After he left last week, Dad got rid of it all."

Jean-Sebastian's eyes flashed and he turned on Vernon. "You discarded Harry's possessions?"

Vernon paled and seemed to sink back in his seat, his eyes darting from side to side. His fear would almost have been amusing if Jean-Sebastian had not been so thoroughly disgusted with the man who had provided Harry with such a dismal childhood environment.

"It's okay," Harry said, his manner somewhat resigned. "I make sure I take everything that means anything to me when I leave after summer hols. All I had left were a few old clothes and some odds and ends."

Turning to regard his ward, Jean-Sebastian searched his eyes, looking for some hint of anything other than the resignation which had been so evident in Harry's voice—if the boy had lost anything of value to Dursley's "housecleaning", he would have it out of their hides. Once again, Jean-Sebastian noticed the somewhat tattered and oversized state of Harry's clothes, which he had assumed was some Muggle fashion statement, but now he was not certain. Then, there was the single trunk of his possessions, which he clutched tightly in his hand. Whatever the Dursleys had or had not done to Harry, they had certainly not provided a suitably nurturing environment to the young man, and knowing that filled him with rage. But he checked his temper and glared down at the elder Dursleys with contempt.

"Very well—we will be taking our leave now. I have never witnessed such complete disdain and criminal negligence in a couple responsible for the upbringing and wellbeing of a young man in my life. You, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, should be in prison for what you have done! _Do not_ ever attempt to contact Harry again—you will not appreciate the consequences!"

Motioning to Harry, Jean-Sebastian swept from the room with Harry close on his heels. They had walked no more than a few steps when they heard a voice calling to them.

Jean-Sebastian turned and looked at the heavyset bulk of Harry's cousin. Seeing with a glance that Harry was regarding his cousin curiously, he felt it would do little harm to let them speak before they left.

Dudley shifted from foot to foot nervously while covertly watching Harry out of the corner of his eye. He seemed to want to say something, but for whatever reason was uncertain—or unwilling—to come to the point.

"What is it, Dud?"

The sound of the young man's voice seemed to startle him from his thoughts. "Harry… I wanted… Oh, hang it all—I'm not very good at this."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before visibly screwing up his courage and addressing his cousin. "I just wanted to say… I know I haven't treated you well, but… Thanks for saving me from those ghost thingies…"

Harry smiled at his cousin, a smile which actually seemed to reach his eyes—somewhat surprising if half of what Jean-Sebastian suspected about his time with his cousin was true. "It's okay, Dudley. I couldn't just leave you behind. Don't think anything of it."

"I think _a lot_ of it, Harry," Dudley contradicted. "The way I've treated you, I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd left me in the dust."

Harry did not appear to know what to say—after a moment's thought, he again smiled. "You're welcome."

"And Harry… don't listen to what dad says about you. You're no freak. Wherever you're going, I hope I can see you again… sometime…"

"I'd like that, Dudley," Harry said again. "Maybe when this is all over I'll look you up sometime."

Although he was certain Harry would have denied it, he thought he detected the hint of tears in Harry's eyes—obviously, finally being offered a hint of acceptance from one of his relatives was affecting Harry more than he was letting on.

Dudley nodded his agreement to Harry's offer and then turned his attention to Jean-Sebastian and ducked his head. "Please take care of my cousin, Mr. Delacour."

Inclining his head, Jean-Sebastian directed a smile at the young man. "I will. Thank you for your words here, Mr. Dursley—it takes a lot of courage to admit when you've been wrong. Please convince your father to take the warning seriously," he continued with a stern expression on his face. "If you don't, the consequences could be disastrous."

Dudley nodded, and after shuffling forward and shaking Harry's hand awkwardly, he disappeared back into the house, leaving behind one bemused wizard and a confused young man whom Jean-Sebastian suspected felt somewhat better about his relatives than he did before.

They left the house, walking down the block back to the park, but instead of finding the secluded spot they had arrived in before, Jean-Sebastian directed Harry to a bench, intent on getting some answers from him before they went any further. Harry seemed somewhat confused, but he allowed himself to be guided and then sat down, waiting for further instructions. Jean-Sebastian flicked his wand, setting up a few charms to ensure their privacy, before turning his attention on the young man.

"Harry," he began, not wanting the boy to become uncomfortable with a long silence, "I wanted to speak with you about your time with your relatives."

Harry's face assumed a defensive expression, and Jean-Sebastian could almost imagine he saw an extra mask come over his eyes, hiding his feelings behind them.

"I'd prefer not to talk about it, JS," he finally responded. "I'm never going back there, so there's no point."

"Harry, you may have come to believe such ill treatment was something that you deserved, but believe me, the Dursleys' behavior is just short of criminal. You don't have to tell me anything which makes you uncomfortable, but I want to know what things were like for you and take the appropriate actions if necessary."

Silence reigned for the next few moments as Harry seemed to retreat into himself. The expression of anguish on his features and the way he wrung his hands nervously tugged at Jean-Sebastian's heartstrings, but he was determined to give his young ward the space and time to discover his feelings on his own. If the situation was as Jean-Sebastian suspected, he promised he would have the Dursleys' hides hung on his wall.

"What's the point?" Harry finally asked as he glanced up. "It's done, and there's nothing we can do about it. I would prefer to just move on and forget about them."

"And what good is that?" Jean-Sebastian asked pointedly. "Harry, you may not believe you're worth the effort, but I intend to take the time to convince you that you are. And if your relatives never pay the price for their crimes, are they really learning anything? What of their own son? Will they do the same to him?"

"You don't have worry about their little Duddykins," Harry muttered.

Lifting an eyebrow, Jean-Sebastian thought back to the encounter, remembering the way the couple had spoken of and referred to their son, and he reflected, somewhat ruefully, that Harry was probably right—Dudley had likely been treated like a prince by his parents. Of course, their treatment of their own son obviously created its own problems in their son's sense of entitlement and his becoming spoiled, but that really was not Jean-Sebastian's concern. Such an inequality of their situations must have made Harry's childhood all the worse, knowing that he had been singled out.

Jean-Sebastian sat there regarding Harry, allowing him time to sort through his feelings and find his words while at the same time presenting a calm yet implacable front to the young man—he _would _have an accounting of Harry's relatives.

At length, Harry began speaking. He was somewhat reluctant and unsure, and although his manner was hesitant, once he started, the words began to come in a torrent. Yet though the subject matter was emotional and the actions of his relatives had hurt him immensely, his face was a stony mask and his voice was emotionless—Jean-Sebastian knew he had learned to protect himself from his relatives' neglect by holding his emotions in check and not admitting they had hurt him. It was something they would have to work on changing—Harry would certainly never face such attitudes in _his_ family.

The story Harry weaved was heartbreaking—it was one of a lonely, miserable child who could not understand what he had done to deserve the contempt and ridicule to which he was subjected on a daily basis. The story was one of emotional abuse, where the words "freak", "worthless" and "unwanted" figured prominently in the boy's upbringing. Harry spoke of growing up living in a cupboard under the stairs, moving out of said closet and into his cousin's _second_ bedroom after receiving a letter from Hogwarts, only because the Dursleys worried what Dumbledore would do when he found out his living circumstances. Of course, he was not allowed to remove the pile of discarded and broken old toys which took up the majority of his new room. No, little _Duddykins_ was not finished with them, so they had to stay.

According to Harry, he had started cooking the family meals at an early age and ended up doing the bulk of the household chores while his cousin sat on his lazy behind, planning his latest round of bullying. He had never had a Christmas present from them, whereas his cousin had been buried in a veritable mountain of presents, and he had been told that _freaks _did not have birthdays, while again his cousin was treated as if he were a prince.

He spoke of odd things happening to him, things which he could not understand, but of which his relatives must have known due to their knowledge of his parents' abilities. Yet nothing was ever explained—instead, he was punished whenever anything happened which could not be explained while his relatives lied to him, telling him he was the spawn of drunkards who were killed in a car accident, blaming them for the scar he now wore on his forehead.

As horror after horror was spoken in that same emotionless monotone, still, Jean-Sebastian reflected, there was something missing from Harry's tale. The young man fell silent, and Jean-Sebastian determined he would discover whether or not Harry was hiding anything from him.

"Thank you for trusting me with your story, Harry," Jean-Sebastian told him, showing the young man a smile of compassion. "But, Harry, I need to know something. Your relatives treated you abominably, but you haven't said anything about physical mistreatment. Did your uncle ever beat you?"

His eyes widened and he began shaking his head vigorously. "No, he never did anything like that. I mean, there were some times I thought he was so mad he would, but he never did. Maybe he was afraid of what I could do to him when I grew up or something."

"And your cousin?"

Harry laughed bitterly. "Dudley's favorite game was called 'Harry hunting'. He and his gang used to terrorize the neighborhood and vandalize whatever they could without getting caught. I learned very quickly to be much faster than Dudley and very good at hiding—otherwise, I'd get a beating. But he never hit me hard enough to leave a permanent mark and was careful to never leave any kind of mark where it would show. He didn't want my school teachers to know about the bullying."

Jean-Sebastian digested all this, reflecting it was better than he would have thought or hoped. The mental abuse in some ways was worse than if they had physically abused him, but if they _had_ beat him, then nothing would have prevented Jean-Sebastian from exacting a stiff price for their actions. As it was, he was inclined to leave well enough alone—Harry was physically undamaged after all, and it would not do to drag up further painful memories for the young man. Instead, he would focus on helping Harry rehabilitate his sense of self worth—something which he knew would be difficult yet ultimately rewarding. It was amazing how well he had turned out, given the adversities he had faced in his life—Jean-Sebastian would have understood if he had grown into a bitter and vengeful young man, yet nothing was further from the truth. He was as pleasant a young man as Jean-Sebastian had ever had the good fortune to meet.

"Harry, I want you to know something."

The young man's eyes flickered up to meet his, but his expression remained placid, waiting for Jean-Sebastian to come to the point.

"That part of your life is over, and I will never bring it up again. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Harry responded.

Jean-Sebastian raised an eyebrow at the young man, prompting him to flush with embarrassment. "JS…" he amended sheepishly.

"That's better. Just remember, Harry, _I_ will not bring it up, but that does not mean _you_ cannot. If you ever want to talk about it or ask my advice, I will always be available for you, and for that matter, Sirius can help too."

"Thanks JS," Harry replied with considerable feeling.

"You're welcome, Harry," Jean-Sebastian said, his mouth rising in a warm smile. He had only met Harry that day, and already he was developing a fondness for the polite and serious young man. If the stories he had heard of Harry's time in Hogwarts to this point were any indication, life with Harry Potter certainly would not be dull.

* * *

That evening, Hermione Granger was sitting on the bed in her room considering the events of the day when Ginny stepped into their shared bedroom. Knowing as she did Ginny's obsession with the Boy-Who-Lived, Hermione was not surprised that the announcement from earlier that day had been a shock and a crushing blow for the young woman. She had been closeted with her mother for the better part of the day, presumably commiserating and crying out her frustrations, joined by her mother no doubt, considering Mrs. Weasley had wanted the match longer than her daughter had.

The Ginny who entered the room still had a hint of red around her eyes, evidence of the amount of mourning she had done for the loss of all her dreams. Still, as Hermione looked closer, she saw something she had not expected—a small inkling of hope. Although Hermione could not claim to be an expert on wizarding customs and laws, she did not know how Ginny could still hold out hope. The betrothal was a legal one, sealed by the magical power of the two families, therefore completely binding and unbreakable.

"Hi, Hermione," Ginny said, her manner nervous and uncertain.

Hermione smiled and returned to the open book on her lap—the book which she had opened over an hour earlier, but of which she had, as yet, not even read a single page. She was uncertain what she could do to help the young woman. Ginny's feelings, after all, were uncomfortably close to Hermione's, although unlike Ginny's, hers new and still somewhat raw.

"Crazy day, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but a good day, nonetheless," was the response.

The room was silent for several moments until Hermione glanced up and saw tears glistening in the corners of Ginny's eyes.

"Yes, a _red letter_ day," the redhead spat bitterly.

"Harry's free," Hermione responded pointedly. "Would you have preferred the Ministry had snapped his wand?"

Flopping down on her bed, Ginny sank down onto her back, spreading her arms out wide and allowing an explosive sigh to pass through her lips. "That's not what I mean, Hermione. I'm… I'm happy Harry was freed, but…"

She was trying to be patient, but dealing with Ginny's fatalism and hopeless infatuation with Hermione's best friend was the last thing she wanted to think about. With her own thoughts and feelings as unsettled as they were, Hermione would have preferred a quiet, solitary room to herself to think and deal with everything which had happened. Not for the first time, she wondered why she was not in her own room—the house certainly had enough to provide everyone with their own privacy.

"Of course, _you _don't care, do you?" Ginny spat bitterly when the silence had become oppressive. "_You_ have never looked at him as anything other than a friend."

Hermione was just able to check her reaction to Ginny's statement, knowing in her own mind exactly how untrue it was. Still, she felt somewhat ashamed of her thoughts about the young girl—this _was_ a shock for her, and Hermione knew she had not exactly been supportive.

"No, Ginny, I certainly don't know how you feel," Hermione replied, hearing the lie in her own voice but denying it all the same—her friend did not need to know of Hermione's feelings. "But Ginny, you knew there was no guarantee he would ever return your feelings. You've set yourself up for this by refusing to get over this obsession."

Abruptly sitting up, Ginny glared at Hermione, tears glistening on her cheeks and an expression of utter desolation etched upon her face. "I know," she responded quietly. "But as long as he was unattached, there was always a chance… I could still hope…"

Reaching across, Hermione took one of Ginny's hands and squeezed it in a friendly, commiserating gesture. "I understand. It's got to be hard, Ginny, but you need to let it go. Maybe now you can just be his friend without this infatuation getting in the way."

"I tell myself that," Ginny responded, lowering her head, "but I can't help but hope…"

"What is there left to hope for?" Hermione said, confused again over this hope to which Ginny continued to cling. "Harry's betrothed now, Ginny—a _magical_ betrothal. As I understand it, there's nothing you or I or anyone else can do to break it."

The little redhead glanced up with a faint smile on her face which was incongruous with the tears which continued to sparkle on her cheeks. "Actually, there is a way to break it, but that takes the agreement of both heads of the houses, which I doubt they would ever do—politically, this betrothal is far too important for Harry, the Delacours, and potentially our entire world. This could bring the French into the fight against You-Know-Who, which we badly need with Fudge at the controls."

This was a condition of which Hermione had not been aware, but she still failed to understand how Ginny could still hold out hope to be with Harry when there was little to no chance he would ever be free of the contract.

"You mean I finally knew something the great Hermione Granger didn't?" Ginny exclaimed with a small giggle.

A mock glare met her declaration, which only caused the girl to descend further into her mirth. Hermione would have been happy that Ginny was able to laugh, if she had not detected a hint of hysteria in her voice.

"I imagine there are many things about the magical world and Pureblood traditions I don't know," Hermione responded, mock sternly. "That doesn't explain why you still hope to be with Harry even though he's essentially engaged."

The laughter stopped and a pensive looked stole over Ginny's face. "I guess you wouldn't know this either… You know the magical world is somewhat… behind the Muggle world, as far as traditions go…"

At Hermione's impatient nod, she continued, "Well, in the magical world, there are no laws that state a man can only have one wife…"

A shocked Hermione stared back at her friend, her mouth open and working soundlessly.

"It's more like the lack of a law, actually. Although multiple marriages are not exactly common, they _do_ still happen on occasion, especially among old Pureblood families which are in danger of dying out. The thought is that by having multiple wives, a man can father more children, expanding the blood line and preventing the possibility of only having one child and risking the line dying out."

Hermione was aghast, although a part of her was curious. "_Really?_"

Nodding her head, Ginny chuckled at Hermione's reaction. "Apparently, your reaction is very common among Muggle borns. For some families, such as the Zabinis, the problem is not serious—Blaise has several uncles, great-uncles, etc, all who have families of their own, making it unlikely Blaise will ever be involved in a multiple marriage. However, the Malfoys, although they may still have some relatives in France, do not have that luxury. Draco is the last scion of the Malfoy family in England, making him a prime candidate for eventually having more than one wife."

"As is Harry," Hermione breathed, understanding what her friend was saying.

Ginny nodded vigorously. "Yes. The Potters were a larger family at one time and are related to several other families if you go back far enough—the Longbottoms and my own family, for example. If he had been brought up by his parents, Harry would have been taught by his parents that he may one day be a part of a multiple marriage. In fact, if he had lived, James might have eventually had more than one wife, as he had no siblings either."

"Not if what I have heard of Lily was true," Hermione murmured, feeling certain the headstrong witch would never have put up with another wife for her husband.

Giggling again, Ginny nodded her head. "You're likely right. The first wife has to agree to the second marriage, so Lily could have vetoed any subsequent marriages."

"What if there are multiple marriage contracts?" Hermione asked.

"Then the first one has precedence, and any subsequent ones must be ratified by the first wife before they can become active. However, that would never happen, as the father would have to negotiate both. Why would he create two when there is no guarantee the first wife would agree to the second contract?"

"For the political connections?"

"Possible, but there still is no guarantee. And negotiating such a contract would have inherent risks—the second family might be offended by their contract being cancelled, especially if they were not notified of the first contract's existence. It hardly ever happens."

As she thought about it, Hermione wondered if Ginny was thinking this through properly. It certainly seemed as though there was a possibility there, but there were so many variables.

"I was not aware of this," she said, speaking slowly and carefully. "But there are so many unknown factors, Ginny. Harry may not feel that way about you, and I'm sure his fiancée will not appreciate you dating him in order to try to become his second wife."

"I know," Ginny responded, her features once again assuming the desolate look they had had when she had first entered the room.

"So why do you continue to hope?" Hermione asked her, trying to remain as kind and understanding as she could. "And besides, are you certain you want to share your husband?"

"If you really loved someone and the only way to be with them was to share, wouldn't you?" Ginny challenged.

"I'm… not certain I could," Hermione responded, confused as to her own feelings. Would she be willing to share Harry with Fleur, a woman she did not even really know? It would be one thing with someone like Ginny whom she knew and liked, but to do so with a near stranger would be… difficult. Even if she could manage to reconcile herself to the idea in the first place…

"Ginny, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not certain you love Harry."

When the young girl began to protest, Hermione stopped her with an open hand. "Ginny, you don't even _know_ Harry—you've been too shy to get to know him. How can you say you love him?"

For the first time since she had known the young girl, Hermione's statement seemed to give Ginny pause where Harry was concerned. She did not know if Ginny was truly in love with Harry or just infatuated, but she felt it would be better for the girl to let this go—it was almost certain to cause her less heartache in the long run.

"I don't know," Ginny finally stated in a small voice. "I've had this attraction to him for so long… And yet, I guess I really don't know him, do I? I just know the Boy-Who-Lived."

"That can always be fixed," Hermione said with a smile.

At Ginny's raised eyebrow, Hermione continued, "Be his friend, Ginny. Harry doesn't need another fan girl or a potential second wife right now—there will be time enough for that later. What he needs now are friends. You need to let go of your infatuation and get to know Harry as he is, not as you've pictured him all your life. Believe me, treating him as a friend is the best way for you to catch his eye."

The thoughtful look which entered Ginny's eye caused a sigh of relief to the young witch—it appeared she was finally getting through to the younger girl.

"And one other thing, Ginny… I would recommend you give up on your hope—there are too many obstacles to be overcome. If some time down the road it does happen, it will be pleasantly surprising for you, but you're setting yourself to be crushed if it doesn't. Let it go."

The clouded over eyes told Hermione all she needed to know about Ginny's reaction to her second piece of advice, but the girl smiled tremulously after a few moments and nodded bravely. It perhaps was not the best she could have hoped, but as long as the other girl had held on to her fantasy, giving it up would undoubtedly be difficult.

Hermione lay back down on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Now if she could only let it go herself…

* * *

"_I know this is sudden and not what you wished for, ma cherie, but you know how I worry for you. It could be much worse, could it not?"_

As the light of the afternoon gave way to the lengthening shadows of early evening, Fleur Delacour sat on the window seat in her bedchamber, peering out at the beautiful landscapes of the hills and valleys which comprised her home, the words of her father echoing through her mind. For once, the scene in front of her, the mass of verdant green trees and narrow streams amidst the rugged hills of her home, was not enough to distract her from her thoughts and worries.

A small sigh escaped her lips and she pressed her forehead against the window, lost in thought. As every other young girl in the wizarding world, she had been well aware of the fact that her father could negotiate a marriage contract for her, although he had promised her he would only do it if he felt it was in her best interests and the best interests of the family. And of course like any other girl, she had dreamed of a wonderful man sweeping her off her feet, carrying her away to life of love and laughter. Still, as her father said, it was not truly a bad situation. And though she was unsettled over the situation, thinking back on the conversation with her father did bring her some comfort…

* * *

Fleur sat down heavily on the chair in front of the desk in her father's study, unable to believe what her father had just told her.

"Marriage contract?" she breathed. "I was not aware there was a marriage contract in existence for me."

"I found out about it just recently myself," her father responded with a kindly smile. "I did not wish to worry you, so I did not say anything about it until I was certain we would be agreeing to it."

Not knowing what to say, Fleur sat quietly in her chair, staring at the wood of her father's desk. Having reached the age of seventeen, she had assumed that as she had not yet been entered into a marriage contract, it was not likely to happen. Erroneously assumed, it appeared. She was well aware of the state of her father's position in both the political landscape of France and the wizarding world as a whole, and try as she might, she could not imagine with whom he would need to cement a political alliance.

But suddenly, the import of the words made its way through her consciousness and she peered up at her father. "You didn't know about it? Then who negotiated it if you did not?"

"It was negotiated fifty years ago for my generation," her father replied. He then proceeded to relate the history of the marriage contract by which she was now bound. But the one thing he did not tell her was the identity of her betrothed.

"I see you are curious of the identity of the young man," he finally said after he had related the entirety of it to her.

"On the contrary," she said with a hint of wry humor which she did not feel, "that is the kind of minor detail which is quite unimportant, given the circumstances."

Her father favored her with an indulgent smile. "That is the spirit, Fleur—and I think you will not be displeased with the young man I have chosen for you."

Fleur glared at her father, somewhat put out that he would not come to the point and tell her to whom she had been saddled.

With another smile of amusement, her father finally relented. "Your new betrothed is Harry Potter."

A stunned Fleur stared back at her father, aghast at the revelation. Never would she have believed that her father would betroth her to not only a foreign wizard but one of the most famous in the wizarding world. Harry Potter!

"Fleur?"

"But Papa, I hardly know him."

"You have met him, yes?" At Fleur's nod, he continued. "I have never met him personally, but from what little I saw at that tournament, he seemed like a serious, competent young man, and he handled himself amazingly well given the circumstances. His godfather, although I suppose he can be considered to be somewhat biased in his opinion, has nothing but good to say about the young man."

Fleur considered all her father had said, certain he believed he was doing as he felt was right. Knowing what she did of Harry, Fleur could not help but agree with her father's assessment. There were certainly worse wizards out there to whom she could be bound, not that Jean-Sebastian Delacour would ever tie her to someone merely for political gain—he loved his daughters too much for that.

"I know this is sudden and not what your wished for, ma cherie, but you know how I worry for you. It could be much worse, could it not?"

And she was aware of what it could be. As a Veela, she knew that many men would seek her out for her beauty and the status of being with a Veela. The burden of distinguishing those interested in Fleur the person from those interested in the Veela was always difficult and uncertain. Surely, from what she knew of Harry Potter, he was not the type who would use her in such a way.

"Yes, father," she whispered, "it could be worse."

"That is one of the reasons why I decided to enter into this agreement. I trust the account of your young man that I have been given, and I believe that he will treat you well. By all accounts, Harry hates his fame and wishes for a normal life, something which I hope you both can build together. In fact, it seems to me that you two share a similar problem: you cannot be certain if a man is attracted to you or the Veela in you, and Mr. Potter cannot be certain if a woman is attracted to him or his fame.

"Besides, given what I have been told of him, I think you will do very well together. At the very least, it is much more than many Purebloods have to look forward to when entering into an arranged marriage."

Fleur flushed and smiled at her father. "I understand, papa, and I appreciate the fact that you look out for Gabrielle and me so well."

"I have only ever wanted for you and your sister to be happy, Fleur," Mr. Delacour said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk while fixing his daughter with a serious look. "All I ask is that you keep an open mind about your betrothed and give him a chance. I think you will be pleasantly surprised."

Although still somewhat shocked and uncertain about the situation, Fleur nevertheless agreed that at this point it was the only thing she could do. Besides, after she had gotten over her initial impression of Harry, she had been intrigued by his heroism and bravery.

"I shall give him every chance, papa," Fleur agreed.

* * *

She was still unsettled two days after the conversation with her father. She had undergone several opinion shifts since she had met the young man—from the irritation and condescension she had felt toward the young man when he had unexpectedly entered the anteroom after the goblet incident, to the respect she had grudgingly felt when he had out flown his dragon, to the grateful admiration she had felt when he had appeared from the waters of the lake… Fleur's emotions toward the young man had been in a state of constant flux from the time she had met him.

And now she was all but engaged to him. It was unsettling.

Yet she knew her father was right about Harry—he was _not_ happy with his fame and wanted nothing more than to leave it behind. The young man who had saved her sister and helped her in the maze when he had every reason to ignore her in pursuit of the prize would never mistreat her or hold her up as a trophy.

The other part of her changing circumstances was the prospect of her spending her last year of schooling at Hogwarts, leaving the familiar halls of Beauxbatons and entering the hallowed halls of the oldest school in Europe as a student rather than a visitor. She was ambivalent about that thought—on the one hand, she was leaving the familiar for the unfamiliar, while on the other she really was not leaving much. She had a few friends at Beauxbatons, and none of them were particularly close—a result of her heritage, unfortunately. In some ways, Hogwarts might even be better, as there she would potentially have at least the friendship and support of her betrothed. Yes, it was certainly better to look forward to the future and hope for the best rather than mope at her sudden change in status.

A small pop startled her from her musings. Looking away from the window, she saw the small creature that had joined her in the room.

"Mistress Fleur, the master comes with his guest. You is being wanted in the drawing room."

Fleur smiled at the house-elf. "I will be right there. Thank you, Kappy."

The elf grinned and then popped away, leaving Fleur to look at herself one last time in the mirror before making her way from the room. It was time to meet with her betrothed.

* * *

_Updated 05/08/13 _


	6. Chapter 5 – Chateau Delacour

**Chapter 5 – Chateau Delacour**

The journey back to Grimmauld, and subsequently through the Floo connection to the Ministry and ultimately to France, was uneventful, a fact for which Harry was extremely grateful. Due to the lateness of the hour, the Ministry building had been far less populated than it had been earlier in the day, meaning that although the few people who were still there would stop and stare at Harry as he passed, he was free from the scrutiny of scores of curious magicals all at once.

Jean-Sebastian, after seeing Harry arrive to the Ministry building in a heap on the floor, had taken him in hand, showing him the proper way to exit a Floo—the trick was to keep moving. Harry's mistake had been to stop, for he had not realized the transportation magic assumed that a person entered the connection moving and would end it moving—his momentum had always caused him to pitch forward onto his face whenever he exited. Simply walking into the Floo and continuing to walk should be enough to keep a magical on his feet. Wondering why no one had ever seen fit to share this pearl of information with him, Harry was nevertheless eager to put his new knowledge to the test. His first attempt through the international Floo was somewhat successful—he did stumble, but he was able to maintain his balance and not fall, a huge accomplishment for the young man.

The French Ministry building was as quiet as the British one had been, but the difference between the two was palpable. Whereas he was an object of curiosity in his homeland, here people continued on their business without a second glance. Those few who did recognize him—and from their reactions, he could tell who did—merely looked at him curiously, perhaps wondering why he was in France, before continuing on their way. Likely, word of what had happened in the Wizengamot courtroom that morning had not made its way to the general populace of France. For now, Harry reveled in the anonymity—there would undoubtedly be a time later when he would become an object of much more scrutiny in this country, as well, due to Jean-Sebastian and the marriage contract.

The French Ministry was a whirlwind tour for Harry. Jean-Sebastian took him to the main administrative offices of the building, introducing him to some of his acquaintances who were still in the building, before taking him to the Minister's office and introducing him to the French Minister.

The French Minister was a short and balding man, heavyset, but with a jovial smile and a welcoming attitude—Harry liked him immediately, not only for the welcome he received, but also for the sense he received of the man. Although this man was friendly and outgoing, Harry sensed that he was not another Fudge—his questions and observations were keen and to the point, yet not intrusive.

Their conversation was short and mainly consisted of pleasantries and the Minister's personal welcome to France, after which Harry and Jean-Sebastian made their way to the main Floo connections of the building and used the Floo Network to go to Chateau Delacour.

After stepping through the connection, Harry found himself in a large entry hall in an old stone building. It was largely unfurnished, decorated only with a few chairs along the walls and a large area carpet spread out in front of the fireplace through which he had just arrived. Halfway along the walls at right angles to the wall with the fireplace stood two opposing doors—the one on the left was massive, and he suspected it led to the outside of the castle, while the other was a large double door which, standing open, swung outward toward the entry hall. In all, the fireplace looked incongruous in the long entry hall, and he wondered if it had been built after the fact.

Seeing his expression, Jean-Sebastian smiled at the young man, his words making it appear as though he had guessed the contents of Harry's thoughts.

"Looks a little odd, does it not?"

"I don't think castle builders were in the habit of putting fireplaces in entry halls."

Jean-Sebastian laughed. "No, I don't suppose they were. One of my ancestors added it soon after the Floo was developed as a main entry into the castle. I also have a private Floo in my study, but its existence is known only to a few, and it is heavily warded. Here, we can control who has access to the rest of the building, and the room is always watched by one of our house-elves."

As though on cue, a small pop was heard, and a house-elf stood gazing up at the two of them. He was dressed in a forest-green, one-piece pantsuit with gold stripes down the legs and along the lapels and cuffs, and shiny black shoes on his feet. It looked very much to Harry like it was a uniform.

The elf bowed low. "Master Delacour, I is welcoming you home."

Harry stood there in surprise as the small elf spoke in much the same flawed English as his friend Dobby had spoken.

"Thank you, Matty. Can you please call Sirius to greet us?"

"Of course, master," the small elf replied. "I be taking young master's trunk up to young master's room." And then he disappeared with another small pop, taking Harry's belongings with him.

"Do you normally speak English here as well?" Harry asked with a glance at his guardian.

"We have always tried to ensure our girls spoke English as well as French, but ever since we found out about the tournament last summer, we have spoken English at home. The only way to learn how to speak in another language is to use it, after all."

Harry pondered that for several moments, thinking his words made sense, but still not understanding about the house-elf. "But what about the house-elves? Matty sounded just like…"

"Just like your house-elves in England?"

At Harry's confused nod, Jean-Sebastian chuckled and led him through the double doors into the castle. "One facet of house-elf magic is that it allows them to speak in whatever language their master requires, though I assure you their grammar is no better in French than it is in English. For some reason, they always speak in this manner, regardless of what language it is."

It sounded like something which would catch Hermione's interest, but Harry did not pursue the subject—it was enough to know the house-elves would be able to speak with him.

At that moment, Sirius came rushing down a large set of stairs, and upon seeing Harry, his face broke out into a huge grin. He ambled over and engulfed his godson in a huge embrace, which Harry returned fiercely, the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes.

Overall, Sirius looked somewhat better than when Harry had seen him the last time more than three days earlier. Although he was still haggard and thin, he had a twinkling in his eyes which Harry had never seen before, and his coloring was markedly better.

"It's good to see you, Sirius," Harry said, his voice choking with emotion. "I wondered where you went, but no one would tell me."

"I'm glad you're here, pup," Sirius responded. "No one was told where I was going—we had to keep this under wraps."

"Indeed," Jean-Sebastian interjected. The corners of his mouth were turned up in a slight smile as he regarded the two wizards fondly. "I had Sirius brought here a few days ago, not only to get him out of England, but also to get him some treatment for the years he spent in Azkaban and on the run. We had to do it in secrecy, of course."

"Thank you," Harry said with some feeling. "I was hoping Sirius would get some help, but I didn't know what do to."

"You are very welcome—I think I've become quite attached to you all. And then, there is certainly some benefit in this arrangement for us all, not to mention the danger we are all in from your Voldemort. But that is a topic for another day. I assume you would like to do come catching up?"

Harry glanced at Sirius and—catching the smirk on his face—grinned in response.

"Well then, I think you could use my office for a private conversation," Jean-Sebastian continued, apparently not requiring an answer. "I'll have Matty call you for dinner—it should be served in about another hour."

With a companionable hand on each of his companions' shoulders, Jean-Sebastian walked away, leaving the two to their privacy.

They walked the halls in silence until they came to an ornate door which opened into a large comfortable study with a wooden desk and several comfortable chairs. The walls held several bookcases along with several tapestries and wizard photos of the Delacour family. On the far wall away from the desk stood the other fireplace of which Jean-Sebastian spoke; it was lit with a cheery, yet small, fire. It was roomy and welcoming and spoke of a level of comfort which Harry had not experienced frequently in a home setting.

Sirius directed Harry to two chairs situated in front of the fireplace, and they sat down, neither one commenting for the moment, both content in being again with the other. Although he had only known Sirius for a little over a year and had yet to spend much time in his company, Harry was amazed at how comfortable he felt with the older wizard—they had a natural connection between them, one which Harry felt transcended the bond between them due to Harry being James's son.

"So, I suppose you have some questions for me," Sirius broke the silence.

He supposed correctly—yet Harry hardly knew where to start. This day had been so sudden that he had not had time to come to terms with what had happened. It would take some time before he had it all sorted out in his mind.

"You're getting treatment?"

"The best healers in France," Sirius said with a laugh. "Although I don't know I'll ever be truly free of the specter of Azkaban, I feel better now than I have in years."

"I'm happy," Harry responded quietly. "I had wondered where you went. It seemed a little unfair that Ron and Hermione got to spend more time with my own godfather than I did."

"I understand, Harry—I'd love to spend more time with you. Unfortunately, it will have to wait until next summer. You'll be going to England with the Delacours next week, while I will have to stay in France and continue my treatment."

"I guess…" Harry said, somewhat despondent that his godfather would be taken away from him again.

"It will be all right. You will be back for Christmas and Easter breaks, and I'll make sure to be here so we can spend time together."

Somewhat mollified, Harry fixed his godfather with questioning look. "So, how did you get to France? I imagine you couldn't just walk through the international Floo."

"No, there you would be correct," Sirius said with a laugh. "Actually, Moony brought me here. Most wizards are so arrogant in their belief in the superiority of magic that they completely discount Muggles. Moony has spent considerable time in the Muggle world due to his difficulty in finding work in the wizarding world—it has to do with his furry little problem, you see.

"He purchased a rail ticket through the Chunnel to France, and I went with him in my dog form. Once here, it was a simple matter to make our way to the Ministry building, where I was formally granted asylum."

Such a simple yet effective plan, Harry mused. Not only would the local authorities have no way to detect him in his Animagus form, but the magical world would have no way of knowing he was using Muggle transportation—most magicals used magical transportation, with the notable exception of the Hogwarts Express.

"And the marriage contract? Care to explain to me how it came about?"

Laughing, Sirius slapped Harry on the shoulder. "I had imagined you would like to hear about that."

The story was short, but Sirius did his best to explain the circumstances. And although Harry was still somewhat ambivalent about the whole thing, the situation made sense from Sirius' point of view. He even understood why they accelerated their plans after the incident with Dementors in Little Whinging.

When Sirius fell silent, Harry thought for several moments before making any comments.

"So, you did this for my benefit?"

"Yes, Harry," Sirius responded, looking somewhat embarrassed to Harry's eyes. "The marriage contract seemed like a godsend when I found it—by then it was much too late to get you out of the tournament, but knowing Voldemort had been after you for some time, I felt it was the best way to ensure your safety and cement some alliances."

"But wasn't there some other way?" Harry complained. "I mean, I know you did your best and all, but now I've got to marry someone I hardly know…"

A mischievous expression came over Sirius' face. "Come on, Harry, I don't think it will be that much of a sacrifice. After all, if the rumors are anything to go by, the lady is not _too_ repulsive.

Harry snorted. "More like bloody stunning, if you ask me! But that's not the point."

"I know it isn't. But you have to consider the advantages, Harry. With this contract, you are forging an important political alliance which will only help with your insane dark lord problem. The French can be very helpful in the coming war, and you can't discount the value of friends who love you and want to protect you."

"I know, Sirius," Harry replied with a sigh. "It's just… it seems like my whole life has been decided for me… I've never made any decisions on my own. This is just another example of someone deciding something important for me without my input."

Sirius' almost playful expression sobered immediately, and he stared at Harry. "I'm sorry, Harry. I just… I was desperate to help you. I felt so useless sitting there in Grimmauld while you were in danger. I truly believe this is a very big step for you. It is in your best interest, Harry."

"I believe you," Harry responded, his voice almost inaudible. "Look, I'm… grateful you care, Sirius. Merlin knows that's been in short supply in my life. But don't expect me to be… ecstatic about this betrothal—it's too much, too soon. I need some time to think about it… to figure out how I feel about all this."

"I would not have expected anything else. Just promise me one thing—don't shut Fleur out. She is a wonderful young woman, and if I'm any judge of character, I think you will get along famously with her. Get to know her, Harry."

"I will, Sirius," Harry affirmed. "She's in the same boat as I am—I certainly wouldn't hold this against her."

"Great!" Sirius said, slapping Harry on the back. "That's all I can ask for. I think it's almost time for dinner—would you like to see your room first?"

When Harry replied he would, Matty was called and the two of them separated—Harry to go to his bedroom, and Sirius started to pour himself a drink. Harry suspected he was now feeling guilty over his actions regarding the betrothal, and although Harry did not want to accuse Sirius of anything or make him feel the guilt, he wanted his feelings to be known. He would talk to Sirius later that night and tell him.

A quick walk through the castle and they had arrived at the family apartments, Matty chattering away at his side, telling him about how the family had been excited about his arrival and how it was an honor for him to be housed in the family wing rather than the guest wing. Harry smiled indulgently at the loquacious little fellow, reflecting that he reminded him of Dobby—not as hyper, but certainly eager to please and talkative.

The room was several times larger than the small room at Privet Drive which the Dursleys had allowed him to inhabit. It was dominated by a large four-poster bed, while a large fireplace stood on the opposite wall. No Floo access, though, thought Harry, nor could he expect to find many of things which had been present in his aunt and uncle's home. It was a castle, after all, and the home of a wizarding family, which meant the normal necessities of a Muggle house, such as electricity and central heating, would not be present.

The light switch on the wall and the large dome light above his head disproved that fact, and as he flicked it on, light flooded into the room. Wondering why they had lights, Harry set out to search the room for any other Muggle items, but he was unable to find anything else. It was another question to ask the Delacours.

Other than the bed, the furnishings in the room consisted of a desk against the far wall beside the window and two comfortable looking stuffed armchairs situated in front of the fire. His trunk lay on a chest at the end of the bed, although it had not yet been unpacked. Harry pondered doing some unpacking for a moment before deciding not to bother—Jean-Sebastian had said they were moving into the ambassador's manor in England very shortly, after all, so his stay here would likely be very short in nature.

Lying down on the bed, Harry spread his hands and legs out wide, luxuriating in the softness of the mattress and the overall comfort of the suite, something of which he had not known much in the past. His bedroom on Privet Drive certainly could not compare, and although his bed at Hogwarts was very comfortable, still it was a dorm room, shared with four other young men. This was his own and far more than he had ever had before.

A moment later, Matty popped in, informing him that dinner would be served shortly and that he was to make his way down to the dining hall to greet the family. Suddenly nervous, Harry asked the small elf to lead him there, to which Matty replied that was the reason why he was here after all. Harry grinned and fell into step behind him.

Harry was led to a sitting room down several levels below his bedchamber. Upon entering, he was stunned by the sight of more beauty in one location than he ever could have imagined—the entire female population of the Delacour family was there. Fleur, of course, he already knew from the previous year, but the older woman who sat beside her could easily have been mistaken for her older sister, if Harry did not already know who she was. Fleur was a carbon copy of her mother, from her deep ice-blue eyes, to the waves of silvery blond hair which hung free down her back, to the pale skin, high cheekbones and slightly narrowed chin. When they stood to greet him, he could see that they were even of the same height with one another, with the mother perhaps slightly taller than the daughter.

Gabrielle, whom he also knew, was contrasted slightly from the two older women by her hair, which was a lighter shade—a pale, almost white, blond which shimmered in the late afternoon sun. Her eyes were also a darker shade of blue, and her face was heart-shaped, although with age and the loss of her baby fat, that might well change. Still, her whole person bespoke of the ethereal beauty of her older family members, of which she would undoubtedly share when she matured. The truly disconcerting fact was that they were all watching him closely, making Harry feel like he was on display.

Feeling exceptionally self-conscious, Harry nevertheless squared his shoulders and, with resoluteness he was far from feeling, marched into the room, only to be almost bowled over by a blond-haired blur who latched on to him like a heat-seeking missile. Gabrielle excitedly chanted his name while chattering away in French (of which Harry, of course, did not understand a word), all the while hugging him as though she would never let go.

Harry glanced up at the other two Delacour women, noting their fond smiles for their younger family member as well as the welcoming smiles for himself. Harry immediately blushed again, looking down at the still-prattling Gabrielle, not noticing the smile of appraisal which graced his future mother-in-law's face, or the slightly forced quality of Fleur's own smile.

"Gabrielle, Harry does not understand French, my sweet," Mrs. Delacour admonished, her voice a throaty soprano, contrasting with what he remembered of Fleur's clearer voice.

The young witch's hands flew to her mouth, and she giggled, batting her eyelashes at Harry, who, bemused at the sight, smiled back at her.

"Oh, excusez-moi, Harry," Gabrielle breathed. "I did not think; I was so happy to see you."

"It's all right, Gabrielle," Harry responded, unable to stifle a returning grin.

"Come with me—I shall introduce you to my maman."

She dragged him the rest of the way across the room and dropped into a girlish curtsey in front of her mother, making Harry wonder if he should bow to the Delacour matron.

"Mama, I would like you to meet Harry Potter, my savior, and Fleur's…" here she cast a dirty look at her elder sister, "…betrothed."

Ignoring her daughter's antics, Mrs. Delacour stepped forward with a silvery laugh and greeted Harry. "Welcome to Chateau Delacour, Harry; we are happy to have you here."

"Thank you, Mrs. Delacour," Harry replied, feeling somewhat uncertain.

"Now, Harry," she admonished, "I know you call my husband by his name, and I would prefer you did the same with me. Please, call me Apolline. Now, I believe you are already acquainted with my older daughter, Fleur."

Harry smiled, suddenly feeling bashful, and turned to greet Fleur. She was regarding him with an unreadable expression on her face, and although he did not detect any hostility, he was still uncertain of her reception.

"Harry," she greeted him softly, prompting him to respond in kind. The situation seemed about to become somewhat awkward between the two of them until Gabrielle was once again there, tugging on his arm, once again began speaking, asking him how his trip was and how he liked France, among about a million other things.

Trying to decide how to respond, Harry was grateful when they were interrupted by the arrival of the two men.

"Ah, Harry, I see you have begun to charm my entire family," Jean-Sebastian stated with a hint of laughter in his voice. "I can see I will have to watch you, or you'll be stealing them all

away from me!"

"Don't tease the boy," Sirius cautioned with a smirk. "You'll break him. He is a teenager, after all."

The entire room broke out into laughter; even Harry laughed, although he did direct a pointed glare at the Marauder. Sirius did not deign to reply to his godson's displeasure, contenting himself with nothing more than a wink and an even larger grin.

"Well, if we are all finished, I think we can proceed to the dining room for dinner," Apolline interjected. She closed the remaining distance between Harry and herself and smiled brightly at him, interlocking one of his arms in hers. "Besides, Harry is such a handsome, charming young man—I think my husband could stand to take a few pointers from him."

She directed a mock arch look at her husband and then began sashaying from the room, pulling a completely nonplused Harry along with her. He could feel his cheeks burning in embarrassment, but Apolline merely smiled at him and directed him into the dining room, making certain to seat him beside her. Over his shoulder, he could hear Jean-Sebastian's good-natured grumbling, along with Sirius' open laughter, as each of the other men chose one of the sisters and escorted them into the room.

Whatever Harry had expected from the family, this was certainly _not_ it, prompting him to wonder if he could manage to survive not only Sirius but also the entire Delacour family.

* * *

Dinner that evening was nothing like Harry had ever experienced at a dinner table—at least, nothing like any family he had ever eaten with; Hogwarts was another story altogether.

At the Dursleys', his residence from the time he had arrived as a child until after his eleventh birthday and his summers since then, dinners had not been an occasion for much conversation. While Dudley and Vernon had typically spent every meal trying to stuff everything they could in their mouths, his Aunt Petunia had eaten sparingly and daintily, almost as though trying to make up for the atrocious table manners and gluttony of her male family members. And to Harry, whose presence was merely tolerated at the best of times, actually speaking to any of his family members of inconsequential nothings was just as incomprehensible. His usual practice was to eat as quickly as possible and leave their presence—a circumstance which was undoubtedly as welcome to the Dursleys as it was to Harry himself.

By contrast, the other family with whom he had frequently dined—the Weasleys—had a tendency toward garrulity, as they were, as a family, quite boisterous and outgoing. Their mealtimes were generally filled with chatter, each family member loudly and confidently stating their opinions and generally having a good time. Yet while Harry generally enjoyed his time with the Weasleys, the raucous atmosphere, along with the way the family generally interacted with one another, left the quiet and shy young man slightly overwhelmed; in essence, they made him feel welcome by word and deed, but their family atmosphere was not one in which he could feel completely comfortable. He just was not certain he fit in.

Dinner with the Delacours was, by contrast, quiet and subdued. They quite clearly adored each other—the parents' pride and affection for their daughters, the children's respect and love for their parents, all of this was clear to see. Yet they were quiet and controlled in their warmth, and their conversation was pleasant and loving, yet restrained and respectful. Each person was allowed to state their own opinion without interruption before the next person took up the conversation, something which contrasted heavily with the Weasleys' tendency to speak over one another in an effort to be heard. Harry did not think any less of the Weasleys for the way their family unit worked, but he found himself thankful for the Delacours' quiet camaraderie—it was certainly more suited to his own somewhat quiet and thoughtful demeanor.

The food was delicious—as good or better than anything he had eaten at the Weasley table or even Hogwarts, and Harry, as famished as he was due to the length of time which had passed since breakfast, was able to do a credible impression of Ron's legendary ability to pack away his food, much to the amusement of his hosts.

The conversation generally revolved around the events of the day, with Sirius and the Delacour women literally hanging on every word of what had happened in the courtroom. Sirius, of course, had found the whole situation—especially Fudge's humiliation—amusing in the extreme, and he had complimented Harry and Jean-Sebastian many times on the immense prank they had perpetrated on magical Britain.

Harry's questions also proved a major topic of conversation. Anything regarding the situation and the specifics of the marriage contract, and what was expected of them was deferred by tacit consent by each of the diners. Now was the time for dinner and pleasant conversation—such weighty discussion could wait for another time.

However, Harry did learn a few things of interest. First, when he asked about the lights in his room, Jean-Sebastian chuckled and informed him that although the light switch and dome in his room gave the appearance of electricity, it was in reality a clever manipulation of magic paired with certain Muggle ideas. Unless heavily shielded, electricity and electronics were almost inoperable when a certain level of ambient magic was present, and of course, with the presence of the house-elves, Chateau Delacour far exceeded those limits. The lights in his room were actually a permanent charm which cast a Lumos spell in the dome of his room and which was controlled by the runes set into the switch and the dome where the Lumos spell was cast. Similarly, the temperature in each room, the water in the taps and toilets, and a number of other ideas taken from Muggle devices could all be controlled by similar magical ingenuity.

Harry was astonished, not having seen its like before. When questioned, Jean-Sebastian and Sirius led a new discussion of the lives of magicals in Britain and other lands, conversing about what the rich could afford in comparison to those of a more modest financial stature. Essentially, the gist of the conversation was that although such devices were certainly not banned, for many of the poorer classes, it was prohibited due to the sheer cost they incurred. Thus, the Delacours, who were quite wealthy in their own right, were able to afford such luxuries, while the Weasleys, who were notorious for their limited means, could not.

When further questioned, Harry discovered that political leanings and prejudices also affected the presence of such devices in their homes. The Longbottoms, for example, were certainly able to afford the expense and would likely have such devices, due to their generally tolerant opinions, whereas the Malfoys, well known for hating anything Muggle, would undoubtedly stick to the old ways to light and heat their homes merely due to their distaste for admitting Muggles had _any_ good ideas.

The diners themselves were a treat to converse with, each different in their own ways. Sirius was talkative, regaling the company with tales of his exploits with James and the other Marauders, while the older Delacours were friendly and kind (Mrs. Delacour doing her best to learn everything of her future son-in-law). Gabrielle was chatty and bold for a nine-year-old, as she attempted to monopolize Harry's attention for the entire meal, something which earned admonishments from her mother several times. By contrast, Fleur was quiet and composed, and although Harry felt her gaze resting on him several times, her expression was inscrutable and her contribution to the dinner conversation was sparing and vague. He was unable to determine whether she was displeased with the situation in which they now found themselves—by contrast, he could not determine that she was especially pleased with it either. It had Harry worried.

When dinner was finished, the adults, no doubt thinking it would be better for the two young people to become better acquainted with one another while they became used to their new situation, suggested they go off for a while together. Harry, though he was not opposed to the idea, nevertheless glanced at Fleur, trying to see if she had any particular opposition for the plan. Seeing her nod in agreement, he signaled his own consent and followed her from the room.

She led him up several flights of stairs, down several hallways, and to a sitting room which he thought was near to the family bedrooms, though he was not certain due to his unfamiliarity to the layout of the castle.

They sat somewhat uncomfortably for several moments, neither knowing what could be said at such a time. To Harry, it almost seemed like he was stealing her future from her by means of the infernal contract—the fact that he had had nothing to do with its enactment was almost irrelevant.

"It is really too bad neither of us possesses my sister's ability to chatter."

Harry laughed at her comment, happy that his betrothed had found a way to break the stalemate.

"She appears rather determined," he said in response. "I don't remember her being that talkative at the tournament."

"She would have been if papa had allowed her to be. She's not always this way—you seem to have made a lifelong friend when you pulled her from that lake."

Harry groaned and leaned back on the couch. "I hope she gets over it—I get enough of that treatment as it is."

Fleur appeared to be amused by his reaction. "She will—she is only nine, after all."

They were silent for several moments, the lightness of the moment seemingly exhausted. Harry was not certain he was the greatest conversationalist, but he felt he had best try to contribute to their conversation—the tone of this time may greatly affect their future relationship.

He blurted the only thing he could think of: "This is a little awkward."

She smiled her agreement but said nothing further.

"So, I supposed you were surprised," he continued after another brief pause.

"Just a little," she agreed. "I always knew it was possible, but I didn't realize there was a contract already in existence.

"I was certainly surprised it was you," she continued quietly after a slight pause.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, uncertain as to how accepting of the situation she was. "It seems my ability to attract trouble to my complicated life has pulled you in, too."

"Oh, Harry," she responded, reaching out a hand to touch his arm, "I was not meaning to complain or blame you. We weren't the ones who agreed to this contract, though we have to live with it…"

Her comments mollified Harry somewhat, but he still did not know how she felt about the situation. It appeared she was at the very least resigned, but certainly she was not exactly _happy_ about it.

"How did you feel when you found out?"

Harry took a deep breath and tried to organize his scattered thoughts. "I'm not certain I've sorted out my feelings yet… I just found out at the trial this morning."

Aghast, Fleur stared back at him. "Just found out this morning?" She did not appear happy with his disclosure. "You mean they told me two days ago to give me time to get used to it, and nobody thought to tell you before?"

"Sirius was already gone by that time," Harry protested. "I assume they wanted to make certain it was kept a secret…"

Fleur's eyes continued to flash with displeasure. "We'll see about that," she responded coldly. "No wonder you still have not had the time to think about it."

Though he could see her point, Harry was not about to continue with this line of conversation—she was obviously displeased with her father and Sirius for not telling him in advance, but for Harry, having been told the minimum all his life, this was nothing new. He had learned to take momentous changes with a certain amount of aplomb—it was either that or go completely insane.

"I was surprised," he stated, trying to return to the previous direction of their conversation. "I don't know that I've ever been so shocked as when your father made his announcement.

"Though I suppose I shouldn't have been," he continued in a slightly mischievous manner. "I've had so many things happen in my crazy life I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by anything any more. After tournaments, crazy dark lords, Dementors, and basilisks, a betrothal contract should be a run-of-the-mill occurrence!"

Her silvery laughter rang out through the room, prompting Harry to join in. The ability to laugh in the face of such life-changing and unsettling circumstances was one which brought him a certain amount of comfort.

Sobering, Harry sized up his still-chuckling companion. He had to admit that Sirius was right—he would have had to have been blind not to notice it for himself, but it was true that she was delicate and beautiful—stunning, even—and he was well aware that physical appearance would never be an issue in this relationship, at least from _his_ side. Of course, he had always seen her from a bit of a distance in the past—figuratively and, at times, even literally. Now, from up close, looking on her as a betrothed and potential lover, he had to admit he could likely do no better from a physical standpoint. And, he had discovered in the past few moments, though he could certainly not claim to be intimately familiar with her, he was quickly coming to realize that her personality was equally as appealing as her physical attributes. Love had grown from less, he was certain.

"How do you feel about it?" Harry inquired, wanting to get directly to the point.

"I am not any more certain about my feelings than you are," Fleur responded, her manner hesitant. "I _was_ surprised, and I _am_ a little nervous, which is no less than what you feel, I think."

At Harry's nod of agreement, she continued. "I must tell you, though, that I was not disappointed or upset, just surprised. In fact, to a degree, I welcome this."

_That_ definitely shocked Harry. "Really? Wouldn't you prefer to choose who you want to spend the rest of your life with?"

The penetrating gaze he received in response made him feel a little uncomfortable, but sensing his companion was not upset, he waited for her to reply.

"Do you know much of Veela, Harry?"

"The first I'd ever heard of Veela was at the Quidditch World Cup, Fleur. You're the first Veela I've ever met."

"You haven't had a magical upbringing, have you?"

When Harry confirmed her suspicion with a nod, she continued. "Harry, contrary to what you may have heard or read, Veela either are or are not. I am a Veela—I am not a 'quarter-Veela' or 'part-Veela' or anything of the sort. Veela always breed true—if a Veela gives birth to a girl, that girl is a Veela, and if she gives birth to a boy, then that boy is just a boy, although it could be said that that boy will likely be especially handsome. The Veela powers I possess are not any different from what my grandmother possessed."

"I didn't know that. Everyone talked about you being the granddaughter of a Veela."

Fleur shook her head in exasperation. "That is what I am talking about—it is a common misconception about Veela, which most people simply do not understand. It is true that my grandmother was the first Veela to marry into my mother's family line, but that is the extent of the truth about what is 'commonly known' about me.

"You should also know that Veela almost always give birth to girls and that Veela find it very difficult to become pregnant—most Veela give birth to only one child, and two is generally about the limit."

Harry was puzzled, uncertain of what this had to do with their present conversation. "So, we are likely to have only girls?" he queried.

"Yes, but that is not why I bring it up. I'm merely trying to point out that much is assumed or completely misunderstood about Veela. As for your question, I should explain in greater depth.

"Other things which you may have heard about Veela also have a grain of truth to them. I can, generally when I am angry or afraid, turn into a large bird-like creature and cast balls of fire, although I can control it to a degree. We are generally taught to control it as much as possible, as to Veela, losing oneself in one's emotions enough to undergo the transformation is considered to be a failing and one to be avoided assiduously. Because of this ability, I cannot become an animagus.

"Of course, you have heard about a Veela's looks—all Veela are hereditarily born with great beauty, which is passed down from our predecessors.

"The final thing which you may know about is the Veela allure. Tell me, Harry, have you ever seen the effects of the allure?"

"When I was at the World Cup," Harry began thoughtfully, "a group of Veela came out and danced in front of the crowd, causing most of the men to… to go a little crazy."

"Yes, that's it," Fleur confirmed, while looking at him with a speculative eye.

A little intimidated by her gaze, and guessing her thoughts, Harry became somewhat defensive. "I wasn't affected much by it. Not like Ron and his brothers. Hermione shook my shoulder, and I was fine."

A warm smile lit up her face. "I see my father was right about you," she murmured. "Harry, it takes great strength of mind to resist the allure of a Veela, and the fact that you were able to throw it off, especially when there were many Veela exerting their powers, is a testament to your strength of will and mind."

A blushing Harry ducked his head, embarrassed at the praise, but a quick look at Fleur merely showed her amusement.

"Do not be uncomfortable, Harry; there is no quality which is more highly sought after by Veela than the ability to resist the allure."

Harry simply nodded, not wishing to continue the conversation any further—it was just another example of his being different from everyone else when all he wanted was just to be normal.

"So, would you it surprise you to learn that I have difficulty making friends?"

Though his first instinct was to gawk at her, other thoughts intruded, and the impact of what he had been told, both by Fleur and her father, brought him up short.

"I suppose the allure makes having friends difficult?" he ventured.  
Fleur laughed. "A little. I'm impressed, Harry—most would not know what I am speaking of. All they see is my looks, and they automatically assume that I am the most popular girl in my school, when the opposite is true. Those who are not intimidated or outright jealous of my looks are afraid of my ability to steal their boyfriends by simply exerting myself. I have a tendency to have acquaintances rather than friends, and if any of those acquaintances begins a relationship with a boy, they tend to start avoiding me."

"And I suppose your beauty doesn't help in obtaining a boyfriend," Harry guessed. "I tend to have the same problem with my fame, although I'll admit I've never really tried to find a girlfriend."

"Exactly," Fleur said with a smile. "And I do not want a mindless, slobbering fool for a boyfriend… and believe me—I could have them by the dozen if I really wanted."

Harry snickered in response, certain she could.

"So, that is why the ability to resist the allure is such a prized commodity to Veela," she continued. "If I should ever be fortunate enough to have earned your love, I will know it is for me rather than the allure. And trust me—Veela have a tendency to… lose…"

Fleur blushed furiously and trailed off before visibly screwing up her courage and looking Harry in the eye. "What I mean to say is that Veela lose control of the allure when being… intimate… with a man—it tends to turn the man into a gibbering idiot. With your ability to resist the allure, I never need to worry about that, and it will help make our encounters much more… satisfying."

She breathed a sigh of relief and continued on in a calmer tone of voice. "And, given what I know about you, I will not have to worry about your using me for my looks. That is why, although this has been a shock and not entirely welcome, when I found out it was you, I knew that it could be much worse. I am willing to do whatever it takes to make sure our relationship works."

With those quiet words, Harry finally understood what the situation meant to her and how she viewed their future. It was humbling to know that she trusted him to the extent she did, and though he still did not feel like he knew her well, he was willing to ensure her future was everything she could ever hope it would be.

He smiled at her and reached across to give her a hug, an action with surprised her no more than it surprised himself—he normally was not one to initiate much body contact. Fleur, though, was pleased, if the beaming smile which adorned her face was anything to go by. It gave Harry a warm feeling inside to know he could be the means of making her happy.

"I understand, Fleur," he finally responded, trying to inject every bit of warmth he felt at that moment into his voice. "I think we have common goals and desires in a companion—I hope we can work it out between us."

"I am certain we can," she assured him. "We will have lots of time this year to work everything out—I am to attend Hogwarts for my last year of schooling."

Now Harry was confused. "Last year? I thought you were in seventh year during the tournament—you were seventeen, weren't you?"

"Yes, but I turned seventeen in October, so I was just within the rules. If you recall, all the Headmaster said was that contestants needed to be of age by the start of the tournament, and I was."

And Harry did see—after all, if they had been two years older, Hermione would have been eligible to enter the tournament due to the same circumstance.

"I understand," he responded with a smile. "I have a friend who was born in September, so although she's in the same year as I am, she is almost a full year older."

"That brown-haired witch that Krum rescued under the lake?"

"Yeah, that's her. Hermione is great—my best friend."

Fleur cocked her head to the side and peered at him with curiosity. "Then why was she not your hostage during the task? For that matter, if she is your best friend and you did not have a girlfriend, why did you not take her to the ball?"

"Hello? What do you see here? Male? Teenager? Clueless?"

His irreverent statement caught Fleur by surprise, and she descended into a fit of giggles while Harry grinned at her.

"I know I should have asked her, but I was too worried about being on display for all the school to see, not being able to dance, and I was afraid I would be rejected by anyone I asked."

Harry was silent for several moments, thinking about the events around the ball; knowing what he knew now about his relationship with his closest friend, he knew he had been a fool to have let the opportunity slip away. Not that it mattered now…

"I _should_ have asked her," he repeated quietly.

"Hindsight is a wonderful thing, is it not?" said Fleur, breaking him out of his introspection.

"I suppose so," he replied with a sigh before visibly shaking himself out of his thoughts. This was his betrothed, and it would not do for her to see him pining over another woman.

"So, is there anything else you wanted to know about me?"

The twinkle in her eyes was reminiscent of a certain Headmaster. "Many things, I should imagine…"

They laughed together, and Harry was struck by the thought that just as the Delacour family had not been what he had expected, neither was Fleur personally. Regardless of the way she had acted when he had originally met her, she was very friendly and personable now—Harry was becoming more accepting of the way things had turned out and was hopeful life with her would be all he had ever hoped for.

* * *

Upon spending some hours talking and laughing together, Fleur and Harry left the sitting room to rejoin her family, both still somewhat uncertain about the situation yet confident in the fact that they had begun to take steps to get to know one another.

They were greeted by the other family members, particularly by one young blond girl who had been sitting rather impatiently with the adults, eagerly awaiting Harry's return. His attention was immediately commandeered, and she led him over to a sofa and proceeded to chatter away at him, completely oblivious to the fond looks directed at her by the rest of the family.

Fleur was amused at her sister's antics, reflecting that from the time she had emerged from the lake and discovered the identity of her savior, the only subject which held any interest for her was Harry Potter. She appeared to have come down with a serious case of hero worship for the young man, and Fleur knew that although she was close as ever to her sister, Gabrielle was envious of the betrothal contract—Fleur was certain that if possible, Gabrielle would have traded places with her in an instant.

Knowing the benefits of the betrothal and having come to know Harry better by means of their conversation that evening, Fleur was beginning to feel better about the circumstance in which she found herself. She was by no means reconciled to it and was still somewhat anxious about what the future held for them, but she could see now why her father had acted the way he had, and she knew her chance for happiness was as good as any. She had put on a brave face for Harry—and suspected he had done the same for her—but hoped that everything would work out for the best.

The Delacour family, along with Sirius and Harry—who Fleur already knew were considered part of their extended family by her parents—discussed the upcoming week, noting that there was much to be done. First, her father brought up the fact that Harry had very few possessions—particularly clothes—and suggested the entire group go out on a shopping trip the next day to buy Harry some new things. Harry, of course, declined, stating that he had always done with little and did not need new things. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he had been overruled by the female members of the family, whose ears perked up at the word "shopping", and Fleur's mother had immediately began sizing up Harry and planning his wardrobe, if Fleur knew her mother at all. Sirius and her father had merely smirked and gone along with the trip, teasing Harry to beware of females afflicted with "shopping disease". It had not taken much for her mother to quell their joking, merely a glare at Sirius along with an upraised eyebrow at her husband which promised a long, unpleasant discussion later if he continued to bait the young boy.

When Harry grudgingly agreed to the excursion on the condition that he would be allowed to pay for his own clothes, her father had once again stepped in and told him that the Delacours were quite well off and that he could consider the new clothes a gift from his new family. His reaction to that had been rather surprising, as he had colored, disbelieving it and ultimately having to be convinced that his hosts were in earnest. Fleur had heard stories of his upbringing by what she was rapidly coming to think of as nasty Muggles, but she had not thought it to be as bad as it now appeared. She was left thinking that perhaps some day she would have to pay a visit to the reprehensible family and explain a few things to them…

Then they began discussing the impending move to the ambassador's manor in England, which, her father had informed the family, was to take place over the next several days. The house-elves would begin to move the family's belongings over to their new home the next day and would have it completed by Sunday at the latest. This would allow the family time to prepare and move at their leisure and perhaps even take Harry and Sirius to a few of the more famous sights in France. Needless to say, Harry was once again taken aback and embarrassed by the attention shown to him by his new family.

It was not until the talk turned to Harry's experiences that it really became interesting and Fleur began to truly understand exactly what life in the wizarding world had been like for the young man. And of course, it was her father who broached the subject.

"Harry," he stated into a lull in the conversation, "I would like to ask you about the return of this dark lord and the things I have heard about you over the past few years."

Harry shyly ducked his head, mumbling about how he had not really done anything special.

But her father was not amused. "Really, Harry, there is no need to be overly modest or ashamed of your successes. You have had a remarkable life thus far, and you should be proud of all that you have accomplished—do not be afraid to take credit for the things you have done well."

Fleur watched her betrothed very carefully, wondering how he would react to her father's admonition. He was a very modest young man, to be certain, but beyond that, Fleur was certain that his upbringing was a major contributor to his self-effacing attitude and inability to take praise. Her father was right—the ability to be proud of one's accomplishments without being overly arrogant was an important life skill, and Harry's inability to see any good in his experiences bespoke a disturbing lack of confidence, especially if, as rumored, he was to be at the forefront of the struggle against the dark lord.

At length, Harry gave a tentative smile back at his new guardian. "I will try, J.S."

"Good. Now, please tell us about your adventures, and there will be no holding back."

The next two hours were incredible in the description of the sheer number of dangerous escapades in which Harry Potter had been embroiled throughout the course of his first four years at Hogwarts. The family listened as he described his experiences with the Philosopher's Stone in his first year, shuddered in stunned disbelief when he told them about fighting the huge basilisk, and were awed by the story of the rescue of Sirius and the pure power of Harry's Patronus which had driven off dozens of the foul Dementors. And although Fleur herself had lived through much of his fourth year herself—bar the duel in the cemetery, of course—hearing Harry detail the events from his own perspective brought Fleur new understanding, giving her an even greater respect for the young man. He had truly undergone an incredible number of challenges in his short life, and with the dark lord's unhealthy interest in him, Fleur felt certain it was only a matter of time until his next escapade. Her future with him, at least in the short term, would be anything but boring.

"That is a truly remarkable story, Harry," Jean-Sebastian said at length, once Harry had finished his narration. "I do not know that I have ever heard of such heroism in an adult, let alone a teen such as you."

Harry blushed in response but had the presence of mind to murmur a quiet thank you to his host. "I had the help of my friends."

"I am sure you did, Harry, but you were obviously the catalyst for these events as well as the main participant. There are a few things I would like to clarify, though."

At Harry's nod, he continued. "In your second year, you say you fought a basilisk under the castle. Just how large was this basilisk?"

"I was a little too busy to take measurements," Harry responded cheekily.

Sirius let out a guffaw among the Delacours' laughter and slapped his godson on the back. "Spoken like a true Marauder!"

When the laughter had died down, her father said nothing—he just raised his eyebrow at Harry and waited for him to continue.

"My guess would be about fifty to sixty feet," Harry finally responded after a moment's thought. "At the end, I was standing about twenty feet up on Slytherin's statue when the basilisk reared up and faced me, and I'm guessing that as much or more of it was still on the ground."

A stunned silence met Harry's declaration. Fleur did not know much about basilisks—they were incredibly rare and illegal to breed, after all—but she did know that the bigger they became, the older and more deadly they were. One over fifty feet long would have to have been several centuries old. It was obvious, though, that Harry himself did not know anything of them beyond that which he had experienced first hand—that was probably enough for him. It would be enough for anyone.

Sirius whistled in awe. "I knew it had been a nasty piece of work there, Pup, but I didn't know the full extent. You really don't know what you have done, do you?"

At Harry's blank look, Jean-Sebastian took up the discussion. "Harry, not much is known about basilisks beyond the obvious and their abilities. They are illegal to breed, and as the circumstances of their birth are specific, it is almost impossible for one to have been born naturally. You are aware of how they are bred?"

"Hermione researched in second year," Harry confirmed.

"Of course. Then you must realize that in order for a basilisk to exist, they almost had to have been created specifically by one with the knowledge, the will, and the reason to do so. They are truly foul creatures and are illegal to breed—it is one of the tenets agreed to by all member states of the ICW. Therefore, the fact that you not only killed a basilisk but also one of that size underneath the castle is astonishing."

"Not only that, but you did it as a twelve-year-old, without any training," Sirius added. "I don't doubt there are few fully trained adults who could accomplish such a feat."

When Harry was about to protest, Sirius waved him off. "I know, Harry—you had help, and without the Headmaster's trusty phoenix, you would likely not be here to talk about it today. But it still is a marvelous feat, whether you did it yourself or not."

"And that brings us to another point," Jean-Sebastian interjected. "Given the dark lord's interest in you, I think it is high time you receive some training to combat him. Has Dumbledore provided any additional training for you?"

Harry shook his head no.

"I am not surprised," Jean-Sebastian responded, stroking his chin absently. "You are still young and just coming into the age of being able to handle some of the more powerful spells."

"Don't forget the fact that he mastered the Patronus in his third year," Sirius interrupted.

"Indeed. Maybe you have been there for a while. But the point is that it is generally about fifteen when a young person's magic is deemed stable and powerful enough to handle truly powerful curses and hexes, and you will start learning them during this school year. Still, I think we need to accelerate your learning so you can be ready for Voldemort the next time he comes after you—you may not be able to defeat him yet, but knowing some spells and having some dueling skills may just be enough to keep you alive until you can escape.

"I think we will bring someone in to tutor you for the rest of the summer, and Fleur can join you in your sessions."

Harry glanced over at Fleur with a questioning look in his eyes.

"It would certainly help, Harry," she told him. "The dark lord has shown many times that he takes a specific interest in you, and I would feel much better if my betrothed knew how to defend himself."

The shy smile on Harry's face completely disarmed Fleur, and she responded with one of her own. At this moment, she felt better about the whole situation—sitting with Harry and her family, listening to him talk about his adventures, all in his modest and self-effacing manner, had given her further insight into his character. She had to admit that she was impressed with what she had seen.

"Thank you, Jean-Sebastian I would be happy to receive the additional training," Harry finally responded. "But could I invite my friends to attend, too?"

Jean-Sebastian and Sirius shared a glance.

"Ron and Hermione?" Sirius asked.

At Harry's nod, both of the men chuckled. "That would be fine, Harry," Jean-Sebastian affirmed. "I understand the bond you have with your friends—it would be good for you to have your support group better trained as well."

The talk then turned to other matters and continued for some time, Harry by now completely charming Fleur's entire family. She had not known what to expect from Harry—her interactions with him during the previous year had been sporadic and rather impersonal. He was not as she had expected.

* * *

Jean-Sebastian watched his family interact with their guests, especially with one Harry Potter, and he was pleased with what he had seen from their interactions. Harry had quickly and effortlessly integrated with the entire Delacour family, even after only a few short hours, and he was certain Fleur had begun to get to know the young man she would eventually marry. She was a good girl and had always made him proud—he wanted the best for her, and although he had only known young Harry for a day, he was quickly becoming of the opinion that Harry was it. This was working out better than he had imagined.

As for Harry, it was clearer than ever that Harry lacked the confidence that an exceptional young man such as himself should have at his age, and it was also obvious that it was the Dursleys' influence which was at the root of his problems. His association with Jean-Sebastian's family should go a long way to helping him gain that confidence which only acceptance and love could instill. Looking around at his family, Jean-Sebastian could see them all riveted on whatever the young man was saying—Gabrielle (he had to chuckle at the obvious hero worship and infatuation his youngest was showing) seemed almost unable to take her eyes off of him, while his wife was quite enamored of the young man. If they had been young and still in their dating phase, Jean-Sebastian fancied that he might almost feel threatened by the attention she was showing him.

Fleur was the difficult one. Though she was beginning to get to know Harry Potter, her manners and ways of expressing herself were still somewhat reserved, something he knew she had picked up as a defense mechanism against the sometimes open hostility she often experienced from other girls her age. Still, she seemed to have made a good start with him, and he certainly could not expect her to throw herself into his arms and declare undying love only a few hours after his arrival. Jean-Sebastian believed in his heart that they were a very good match—they only needed time to get to know one another better.

The other things he had learned that day—the state of the British Ministry and of the Minister in particular—well, he had known what the situation was prior to his trip into Britain that morning. However, seeing it firsthand was a shock—it was clear that the Ministry, as long as Fudge was at the helm, would be of no help whatsoever. It bore some consideration for their future and could necessitate removing Harry from Britain if things became too bad there. It was a step Jean-Sebastian was loath to take, as he knew that retaking a hostile land would be much more difficult fighting a hostile force from within.

And that was another matter—this secret society of Dumbledore's which Sirius had discussed with him. He would have to contact Dumbledore at the first opportunity and discover what exactly it was, what their goals were, and how they meant to fight the battle he knew was on the horizon. If it was something he could in all conscience support, then he would have to, not only for the sake of his family, but also for the sake of the young man who had entered their lives.

* * *

_Updated 05/09/2013  
_


	7. Chapter 6 – Baby Steps

**Chapter 6 – Baby Steps**

The first few days after Harry's arrival were hectic, filled with various activities as the Delacour family tried to cram as much into their only two days in France as they could. Through it all, Harry was polite and cheerful—if a little overwhelmed—but the way in which he went about his new life with an almost childlike joy and wonder made it clear that he had never taken part in most of those activities before—his relatives had kept him from it. It appeared he had gone about life as a passive viewer—never really part of anything—a family, a group of friends, or anything like them— he simply had moved from one situation to another with no real purpose or thought and no welcome from the reprehensible Muggles. Although it was never voiced out loud within his hearing, his new family was filled with disgust at his old guardians, and in the confines of their own minds, more than one of them contemplated a healthy dose of revenge against the loathsome family.

To combat his hesitance and uncertainty, his new family, by unspoken agreement, simply tried to be open and friendly—the Delacours took special care as a family to ensure that he knew they had his best interests at heart and that they cared for his happiness. It took some time, but it seemed as though the two days in France went a long way toward making him feel comfortable and welcome in their home and in their presence. The elder Delacours made him feel like his opinion mattered when they spoke with him, listening when he had something to say and taking the time to talk to him, explaining things he did not understand and patiently guiding him when required. The younger members of the family contributed in a slightly different manner—Gabrielle became his shadow, rarely letting him leave her side, while Fleur was friendly and polite, yet still maintaining the reserve she had shown the first evening. Sirius, of course, was the same as ever—the consummate Marauder—as he joked and laughed and told stories of his escapades as a young man with Harry's father.

The day after his arrival in France, Harry was treated to a new phenomenon—the concept of women and shopping. The Delacour women were not fanatical shoppers—they tended to get what they needed when they needed and did not spend an excessive amount of time browsing. But a case such as Harry's—where it was clear he required everything from the basics to a more formal style—caught the imaginations of Apolline and her daughters, and they found themselves eagerly anticipating the upcoming trip and the opportunity to assist Harry in finally coming into his own as the powerful and confident young man and wizard into which he was to grow. The first step in this endeavor was that he had to look and dress the part.

The day after his arrival, the entire family Portkeyed away from the castle to the French equivalent of Diagon Alley to peruse the shops and make certain Harry was outfitted with whatever wizard robes he would need for the coming year. As with Diagon Alley, the district was small, and there was nothing there he would not have seen in his own country, so things went very smoothly, leaving the young man to wonder why Sirius and Jean-Sebastian were so amused at the thought of a shopping date with the women.

But then the true fun had begun. Exiting the magical shopping area, they had entered a nearby Muggle district with shops as far as the eye could see—and the wonder and curiosity on Harry's face had been priceless. The women, their imaginations on fire as to how they could build the young man's wardrobe from the ground up, immediately dragged him off, intent on seeing him clothed properly and his cast-off rags from Dudley burned as soon as may be.

Thus had begun a marathon of shopping, and by the end of it, Harry was feeling as though he had tried on and modeled every piece of clothing in the Muggle world. They included, but were not limited to, shirts, pants, sweaters, jackets, and shoes—all of them in casual and formal styles, many of which he would never have thought to even look at had he been on his own. The ladies had been positively indefatigable, and their energy had been astounding—Harry had thought they would never quit.

Everything he looked at or tried on was either approved or rejected by the ladies, who at times did not even listen to his opinion, if he had even had one to give. It had finally taken a shirt which they had forced him to try on—one he decided he would not be caught dead in—which had forced them to listen to his opinions on his new wardrobe. Of course, Apolline had been amused by his sudden recalcitrance, smirking as she told him that she had been waiting for him to make up his mind and dig in his heels. After that incident, it had gone much more smoothly, as everything was first agreed upon by Harry before the ladies approved or, conversely, exercised their veto power.

However, this new meeting of the minds did not seriously limit the number of different outfits to try on. They literally spent the entirety of an afternoon at it, and all were exhausted by the time Harry walked away from the shopping center carrying bags and bags worth of pants—denim, cotton, formal—as well as several shirts of all kinds and socks, shoes, boxers and all of the accessories the ladies had decided he needed. Then his new family had coaxed him into wearing some of his purchases, and a quick _Incendio_ in an out-of-the-way alley did away with the old baggy clothes he had been wearing.

Seeing how much they were purchasing, Harry had begged Apolline to allow him to pay for his own purchases, but she was firm—Harry was now part of the family, and as such, the Delacours would now treat him as one of their own children, which included providing him with the essentials in clothing, shelter, food and the love and care of a family. It was a slightly choked-up Harry who left the shopping malls behind, clutching bags upon bags of his new possessions and feeling slightly overwhelmed.

That evening, they ate dinner at an expensive restaurant in Paris. Not ever having an experience to compare with, Harry was amazed at the excellence of the cuisine, while simultaneously being concerned that he would make some serious faux pas and embarrass himself. His new family quickly allayed his fears and made him feel welcome, while Sirius teased him out of his reticent mood; soon he was laughing along with the family and having a wonderful time.

The next day was spent taking in some of the sights of France. Jean-Sebastian explained to Harry that although they could not stay long, he could hardly be here without seeing _some_ of the major sights. So, Harry was able to go to the Eiffel Tower in Paris, see some of the more famous locations on the Champs Elysees, the Arc du Triomphe, as well as a few other locations he had always heard of, but never visited. In all, it was an eye-opening experience for Harry and served to draw him closer to his new family.

They were also days for Harry to get to know his newly betrothed. Both had felt they had gotten a good start during their conversation from the previous night, but they also realized it would take some effort for them each to get to know the other. The first part of that bonding process was for them both to understand the other in contrast to their preconceptions and their commonly held misconceptions.

For Fleur's part, she wanted to know more about him—she had heard his stories of his adventures and had heard all the so-called "official" information about Harry Potter, but he was to be her husband, and it was simply not enough. She was resigned to the match, but still she had reservations, as she had so honestly disclosed to him on his first evening in France, and the best way to remove those reservations was for the two of them to become better acquainted and knowledgeable about each other.

This had entailed taking as much time as their event-filled days before their departure would allow, and although it upset Gabrielle to a certain extent, they had spent much of the following evening shut up in a room together and walking about the park in which the chateau stood. Gabrielle was soon put to rights by her mother, who reprimanded her gently and reminded her that Harry was _Fleur's _betrothed and that they needed to get to know one another without the interference from others—Harry would spend time with her, but she must not be so possessive of him. Gabrielle had sulked a little when told this, but her better nature took over, and she was soon able to interact with Harry more like a typical nine-year-old rather than with the clingy hero worship which had characterized her actions before. Not that the hero worship still did not show up from time to time…

The conversations between Harry and Fleur generally revolved around how Harry felt about the situations in which he had found himself. Fleur had already heard about the events themselves, so she had the information; however, she felt that knowing about Harry's feelings would help her to get to know him better. In addition, she asked him about his childhood at the Dursley residence and induced him to talk about his friends at Hogwarts, his impressions of the education there, and anything else he could be persuaded to speak of.

However, it was not only a one-way passing of information—Harry was just as curious about his betrothed as she was him. He was unable to get her to discuss much of her experiences at Beauxbatons—she told him she was not ready, and it really did not matter anyway—but when it came to her times with her family and her abilities as a witch and a Veela, she was much more forthcoming.

There were two events which particularly illuminated her character to Harry, causing him to gain no small measure of respect for his newly betrothed.

* * *

The morning after Harry's arrival at Chateau Delacour, he had knocked on Fleur's bedroom door, intending to escort her down to breakfast. They chatted amiably on the way down, entering the dining room to see that they were the last arrivals. Harry, seeing the breakfast foods spread out on the table and suddenly feeling the hunger for the morning repast, motioned for her to precede him to the table, only to find that she had already moved from his side.

He watched as she strode purposefully to the table and stopped by Sirius' chair, her hands on her hips as she glared down at the former Marauder.

"Sirius Black!"

Sirius started and stared up in surprise, even while Jean-Sebastian chortled at the scene playing out in front of their eyes.

"I do not know what you have done, my friend, but my daughter glaring at you in that manner is _not_ a good sign!"

"I would not make such comments, Father, dear," Fleur retorted with an incongruously sweet smile. "I have some words for you as well."

With Fleur focused on another, Sirius had managed to rein in his surprise, and he peered back up at her, a charming smile now plastered upon his face. "And what can I do for you, my lady?"

"You can start by explaining why you did not tell Harry about the marriage contract before he had to walk in to that trial."

Whatever Sirius had been expecting, this was clearly not it. "Well… I… I mean, we… thought that it would be better to keep it a secret," he stammered. "Dumbledore felt that we should keep it to ourselves until the trial."

Fleur raised an elegant eyebrow. "And Dumbledore rules over house Black?" was her rhetorical—not to mention slightly sarcastic—question.

Upon seeing Sirius had nothing to say in response, she continued, "Besides, I know how you British revere the Headmaster, but truthfully, I am not convinced he has Harry's best interests at heart."

Sirius began to sputter in response, but he was ruthlessly drowned out by the irate young woman. "I do not think he is evil, Sirius, but he did leave Harry in a very poor environment for years when he surely could have found alternate arrangements."

A sigh and a weary hand over his eyes was Sirius' response. "I cannot help but agree with you. I argued that myself with him, but he was convinced Lily's blood protection was the best means of defense for Harry."

"They may have protected him from Death Eaters," Fleur retorted, "but certainly not from the neglect of his guardians."

Jean-Sebastian Delacour had had many more years to know his daughter and understand her moods—in this case, he evidently felt she was serious in her displeasure, and he attempted a conciliatory tone.

"I suppose you are correct, Fleur—we should have told Harry before the trial. There simply was not a lot of time or opportunity, and as Sirius said, secrecy was paramount. But all is well, and Harry is no longer bound to stay with his relatives. I can promise he will not be going back while either Sirius or I have guardianship over him. And again, as Sirius has said, the utmost secrecy needed to be kept, so as to spring the surprise on the Minister without allowing him time to form a counter-strategy."

Apolline, who was astonished by the revelation and just as displeased about it as her daughter, joined forces with her against the men. "Oh, you thought Harry was not to be trusted to keep information about _his_ _own_ future secret?" she asked with an arch look.

When confronted by both of his female family members—not to mention Gabrielle, who, even though she did not understand fully of what they were speaking, at least knew that it was about the boy she practically worshipped—Jean-Sebastian apparently realized that retreat was the best option.

"You are completely correct, my dear. From now on, Harry will be informed of everything which concerns him."

"Sure thing, pup," Sirius chimed in, catching on quickly. "I would have told you, but I couldn't get a moment when you were apart from Ron and Hermione. And it didn't help that Molly was always hovering around you. You know how nosy she can be."

Harry pondered his godfather's words for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Thanks, Sirius. I would appreciate knowing about stuff like this from now on."

"_Everything_, father," Fleur interrupted. "I am not a child, and neither is Harry—we need to know when something important is about to happen and when you learn of any crucial information. Harry needs to be better prepared than he has been, and it starts with telling him everything."

* * *

That incident highlighted the fact that Fleur was no pushover, and Harry filed that little tidbit away for future reference. And it would certainly be a novelty to be told about things in advance, something which Dumbledore, for all the good things which he had done, had never seen fit to do.

Late the evening of the shopping trip, Harry had had another conversation with Fleur, in which he learned much more about Veela—and about some of the buttons which, when pushed, really angered his betrothed.

* * *

It was rather late, and their discussion had already gone on for some hours. They were sequestered in Fleur's bedroom, to which they had retired upon their return from the shopping trip, and there they had talked about many things. Harry was finally feeling like he was slowly coming to know her. The conversation was casual, as they sprawled across her bed talking about anything and everything.

The discussion had turned to Veela again, specifically the allure, and Harry, curious about its effects, asked Fleur how she used it and how it could be defended against.

"It is difficult to explain, Harry," she responded after a moment's thought. "I simply… exert myself, although that is not the right word. It feels like… projecting an aura."

Harry considered the explanation. "So, it's kind of like you extend your senses out or something?"

"Not exactly." Fleur thought for a moment before picking up the explanation. "Think about what happens when someone is wearing perfume—you can smell the perfume for a few meters around that person."

Grimacing in distaste, Harry nodded. "Yeah, but it depends on how much you use. I swear that one girl in my year bathes in it—you can smell her a mile off—more if you're downwind."

A delighted laugh was Fleur's response. "I will have to learn to avoid her—I do not care much for perfume. The principle is the same, Harry. With the allure, I create an aura that's not unlike the scent of perfume. Now, of course, there are differences—what I create is not a smell, exactly, but more like a magical field mixed with pheromones, which affects men to various degrees. And I can direct it, to a certain extent. For example, I could specifically direct it towards a single person in a room full of people—the other men in the room would not be _unaffected_ by it, but they would not receive the full dose the one I directed it at would."

"Does the allure work on women?"

"No, Harry, women are immune from its effects."

"And are there any defenses?"

"Some, such as you have natural defenses, while others who know a branch of mind magic called Occlumency are also afforded a certain measure of protection. The other protection is love, Harry."

The intense look she directed at him made him feel like he was under her scrutiny.

"If a man is in love with a woman, then his feelings for her will lessen the effect of the allure. Most Veela magic is largely love-based, Harry, although the allure is admittedly more connected to lust than love. And because lust is a pale offshoot of the emotion of love, a true loving feeling for another person trumps the allure and makes it much easier for the man to resist."

"And what else can your magic do if it is based on love?"

Fleur looked uncomfortable but gamely met his gaze and forged on. "Well, Harry, Veela partnerships are renowned for their strength and closeness. If you and I ever have the good fortune to bond with each other in a truly loving way, we will become closer than most normal couples can ever dream. If we ever truly love-bond, I will know without a doubt of your love for me—it's simply part of my powers. I can also tell when others share the emotion. In addition, when we are married and become… intimate with each other, I will know exactly how to please you—it is ingrained in me to know what my lover requires in a mate. It is the reason why Veela were prized as concubines throughout history—what man would not want to have a woman who could effortlessly become exactly what he wants and needs?"

Now, Harry was not a true innocent—the education he had gotten in school just before entering for Hogwarts ensured he had at least some knowledge—but it did not take a lot of imagination to determine why having a woman who could please him was a good thing. The conversation was slightly embarrassing, but already Harry had a much healthier respect for Fleur than he had ever had before—she was more of a sex object to most men than any movie star or supermodel ever could be, and yet she was poised, confident, and modest, not reveling in her ability to catch anyone she wanted. His hopes for the relationship rose even higher due to her obvious self-effacing manner.

"I can see how that could be a problem."

An unhappy sigh was his response. "Yes, it is a problem. I have been propositioned regularly since I was twelve years old."

Harry blinked. "Twelve?"

She nodded. "Veela hit puberty about the same time as normal girls, but until we have gained a little control, there is some… leakage, for want of a better term. The boys my age at Beauxbatons had no defense against it. As I got older and learned to control it better, the situation improved, but by then the damage had already been done. To most of them, I was just a plaything—they would put the moves on me, trying to be masculine and suave in front of their friends. Many times, I had boys try to get me into broom closets, and they generally made my life miserable. And since I can sense true emotion to a certain extent, I knew that none of them were interested in _me_, just in _using_ me."

The frown on Harry's face was thunderous as he thought of what _his_ betrothed would likely face even at Hogwarts.

"There will be none of that at Hogwarts," he growled. "I'll hex anyone who tries anything!"

Reaching across with a smile on her face, Fleur grasped his hand and squeezed. "Thank you, Harry—it is very sweet of you to want to protect me."

But Harry was still not amused. "I want you to tell me if anyone tries _anything_, Fleur. I know we're still working through this, but no one will be allowed to take liberties with you."

Fleur inclined her head and lay back down, resting her head in the palm of her hand. "Is there anything else you want to know?"

"Well, there was one other thing…" he started cautiously, instinctively knowing his next question would likely upset her. "I understand that some consider Veela to be non-human…"

He was correct; the expression on her face quickly became cold, and when she spoke, her voice was like an Antarctic wind.

"I am every bit as _human_ as you or anyone else, Harry—_do not_ let anyone tell you anything else."

"I never thought any differently, Fleur," he responded, speaking in a calm and rational tone of voice. "I just wanted to know what your thoughts about it are—I can assure you that you will hear about it when we go to Hogwarts—from the Purebloods in Slytherin, if no one else."

Fleur's expression quickly changed to chagrin, and she apologized for her outburst. "I am sorry, Harry, I should not have reacted in such a way."

"It's understandable," Harry responded, squeezing her hand in a comforting gesture, returning her actions from moments earlier. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay."

"No, Harry, you will be a target of some of the bigotry by being betrothed to me, so you should know the consequences."

She was silent as she considered her words, clearly trying to find the right balance between outrage and imparting a true sense of the situation. Harry was quiet, allowing her to think about her response and half wishing he had not asked the question in the first place.

"I apologize again for my reactions, Harry," she finally said. "It was a reflex response to the intolerance I have had to put up with my entire life, though I suspect it is not as prevalent here as it is in your society."

Harry nodded, and she continued. "Bigots prefer to think of Veela as being non-human, but the fact of the matter is that we are every bit as human as those who like to promote their agenda of hatred. Veela roots have been traced back to the sirens of Greek mythology, although our origins before that time are much murkier—_The Odyssey_ is the first mention of the race which would come to be known as Veela."

"There are no earlier records?"

Fleur shook her head. "No, but of course there are legends—it is impossible to know the truth, though. Some say the first Veela was a result of some long-forgotten spell which has since been lost to time. Others contend that our existence goes all the way back beyond the time when magic was recognized as a talent, long before any kind of training—even word of mouth—was developed. It is thought that the world long ago was rife with wild magic, and all magical creatures came into existence at this time. Living creatures were affected by the forces of the wild magic and adapted to survive. In any case, physiologically, I am exactly the same as any other woman—regardless of the truth of the origins of Veela, the first of us was a human woman who was changed in some manner by magic. All else is passed down from that time."

"And what do you believe to be the truth of your origins?"

A smile crept over Fleur's face. "It does not really matter what I think. I am a human, the same as any other woman. I simply have a few extra abilities and a much higher chance of giving birth to girls rather than boys. I think it is our nature's way of preserving Veela—as there are no male Veela, our magic forces us to have girls, which perpetuates our race and abilities. The population of Veela generally stays the same or grows only slightly overall. It also seems to be a case of preserving the rest of the human race—can you imagine what would happen if Veela could give birth to many children?"

Harry thought about it for a few moments, but the results were rather obvious. "Eventually, if Veela only give birth to Veela girls, then there would be more and more Veela."

"Exactly. Then, there eventually be a large disparity in the numbers of the sexes—for every boy born to a Veela, approximately nine girls are born, which would cause massive problems for the world. And can you imagine what would happen with so many Veela in the world?"

The implications were obvious. "Veela, with their powers, would generally have the advantage in gaining a mate."

"Exactly. It would take many generations, but ultimately, I believe that the only women left would _be_ Veela. So, I believe that the way Veela reproduce protects both the Veela populations and the population of the world as a whole.

"Which brings us to another point, Harry," she continued. "The fact that we will only have girls is a problem for the continuation of your house."

"What do you mean?"

Fleur shook her head in exasperation. "I keep forgetting that you were not brought up in magical society. The Potters go back centuries, Harry, right back to the time of your founders. If we only have girls, you will not have a son to carry on your name—this is something that is very important, especially to old Pureblood families."

She was right—Harry had never thought to consider this before. "But can't a girl inherit?"

"Yes, she can, but the Potter name would not continue, which is a very big deal to the right families—for example, take the Blacks. If Sirius does not marry and have a son, his name would die out, and his name is at least as old as yours."

"But don't families die out anyway?" Harry demanded. "And some of the girls at Hogwarts don't have any brothers—what do they do?"

"Yes, family names do die out," Fleur agreed. "In the past this may have been as much to do with disease and war, as with only having a female child. And to some it's not as important. But in the high echelons of Pureblood circles, it is a very big deal. You are descended from a Pureblood line. Most members of your social sphere would naturally want a son to carry on the line."

"So, what do we do?"

Harry had the distinct feeling Fleur was feeling him out for some unfathomable reason, but she did not elaborate on her comments. "There are other ways of ensuring your name continues, Harry, but I think I would like to hold off discussing them for now. I would prefer to continue to get to know each other before we think about such serious subjects."

Agreeing with her—although being curious as to her meaning—Harry nevertheless allowed the conversation to move to other lighter topics. It was very late before he finally sought his own bed, feeling more than pleased that he and Fleur had been able to make the progress they had.

* * *

For Apolline Delacour, the two days spent in her future son-in-law's company were enjoyable and very revealing. He was reserved and quiet, generally speaking his opinion in a thoughtful yet diffident manner, especially when that opinion was something which he did not feel strongly or have specific knowledge about. But when he spoke of things with which he had experience, his confidence shone through, and Apolline could see a different side of him—a side which held great promise. For instance, when questioned about Quidditch, he responded with several stories about his time playing the game and experiences he had had. But underlying his exposition about the game was his talk of flying—and that revealed his _true_ passion. It was clear he enjoyed the game, but by and large it was merely a release and an excuse to go flying on his broom.

He was polite and kind, treating everyone around him with deference and respect, something Apolline wondered about considering his upbringing by those horrid Muggles with whom he had lived. Given what she had heard of the confrontation with the Dursleys, she would have expected him to grow up to be bitter and vengeful, filled with the need to prove himself. It was still very early in their relationship, yet although she could detect some of the latter in his manner, there was none of the former. She suspected he could be as angry and petulant as the next teenager, but the true bitterness of spirit seemed absent from his character; he appeared to accept the first fifteen years of his life and his time with the Dursleys with a certain fatalistic resignation, even while he struggled to integrate himself into Apolline's family.

It _was_ a period of adjustment for the young man, and Apolline could clearly see the difficulty he had, especially when he was praised for something or overwhelmed by the welcome of the family. Apolline also suspected he was desperate to fit in with this family, not only because of the fact that he would one day marry into it, but also because he recognized they had taken a large risk in supporting him.

It was not an issue which Apolline had any concerns about whatsoever—in fact, the family was impressed (_she_ was impressed) by his manner and character. She had been dubious about the marriage contract at first—he _was_, after all, a famous wizard and a target of one of the greatest dark wizards of the past millennium. However, now that she was getting to know him and understand his past and see a glimpse of his future, she had no concerns about how Harry would treat Fleur. She was now coming to view it as a very fortunate alliance.

True, he still did have the aforementioned dark lord to contend with, but really, the whole magical world was in danger. She did not know why Harry had been targeted, but she was quickly coming to the understanding that he could become a great wizard with the proper guidance. Jean-Sebastian was a good man and could provide that desperately needed male influence in Harry's life. Together, as a family, they would help the young man grow and become what she knew he could be.

The day of the move, Apolline was sitting in Gabrielle's bedroom, thinking about the changes to their lives, when her husband walked into the room. Sensing his hesitation, Apolline's eyes narrowed in anticipation of the subject of whatever he wished to discuss. If it was as she suspected, he may as well hold his breath.

"Yes, love?" she greeted him, prompting him to smile and approach her.

"Apolline," he began after seating himself and taking one of her hands, "I wish you would reconsider and stay behind in France with Gabrielle."

Apolline huffed her exasperation, wondering if the man would ever give up. "Jean-Sebastian Delacour, we have already had this discussion!"

A lesser man might have quailed at her displeasure, but her husband merely gave her a mischievous smile which _still_ caused her heart to do back flips in her chest, even after almost two decades of marriage. Damn the man and what he did to her!

"We _have_ had the conversation, but the result was not to _my_ satisfaction. That means I must have it again, does it not?"

"Our conversation may not have been to _your_ satisfaction, but it was to _mine_," Apolline retorted. "If you think I will allow you to go into danger while I stay behind, you had better seriously revise your way of thinking."

"Apolline, please be reasonable—"

"No, Jean-Sebastian, I will not be reasonable. We are a _family_, and we will stay together as a family. We have taken a young man into our lives, and I mean to give him every bit of my support, as I know you intend to do yourself. That support does not entail staying behind in France. My place is with you."

"But Apolline, think about the danger—think about Gabrielle. It will be very difficult to do what must be done when I must constantly worry about you both."

"Then you should have thought about that before you decided to enact the marriage contract."

He started to speak again, but Apolline placed a finger over his mouth, compelling him to silence. He was a good man—the very best of men—but he sometimes had a tendency to treat her and their daughters as though they were made of porcelain. While she loved him for it, she was a fully trained witch, and she had her Veela abilities to fall back on if she was to run into any trouble.

"Jean-Sebastian, I will not stay behind, so you may as well save your breath. If things become too difficult, then we will send Gabrielle to live with her grandmother, but _I will not _leave your side. You do not need to treat me with kid gloves—I will be fine."

His long look was expressionless, but to one who knew him intimately, his struggle was evident.

"You will not give in on this matter, will you?"

"No."

He looked down and sighed before glancing back at her with a lopsided grin on his face.

"I thought as much. Whatever possessed me to marry such a strong-willed woman?"

The chuckle he received in response was amused. "Come now, Jean-Sebastian, you like me the way I am—admit it."

"I do—I just wish I could keep you out of danger."

"That you cannot do. Think of it this way—if this Voldemort takes over England, where do you think his next stop will be?"

"I have already considered this," he responded softly.

"Then you know that even France is not truly safe. In fact, I would be surprised if he does not already have agents here recruiting for his cause—certain members of our society can be as bigoted and short-sighted as those across the channel. You know this. In fact, I think Gabrielle and I are safer with you in England than we would be here."

Jean-Sebastian gave a resigned sigh and leaned over to kiss his wife on the cheek before rising. "There is still much to be done."

Apolline rose also and began to busy herself, sorting through Gabrielle's clothes. But before her husband left, she had one more thing to say.

"Jean-Sebastian, please do not bring this up again—I have made up my mind."

Pausing at the door, Jean-Sebastian glanced back at her and smiled. "I can see that you have. The subject is closed, and I will not speak of it again."

Satisfied, Apolline returned to her task as her husband left the room.

* * *

The rest of that Saturday afternoon was spent ensuring all the family's belongings were packed away and transported to their new home by the house-elves. This consisted primarily of clothes and personal effects, the furniture not being needed, except for a few items which were deemed necessary—including Jean-Sebastian's well-worn but comfortable office chair. It was Apolline's housekeeping which kept their transported belongings to a minimum, as she had spent the afternoon going through the family's clothes, putting aside old items to be discarded or donated and generally ensuring everything the family would need would be on hand. Of course, Harry's clothes, which had largely been purchased the previous day, were the easiest, as they were simply left in their bags, ready to be moved.

They were all touched a little by Sirius' melancholy—still considered a fugitive in the eyes of the British Ministry, he was to stay at Chateau Delacour to continue his recovery and await his trial, which had tentatively been scheduled for the middle of the following month. Still, although he was a little glum, Sirius roused himself to do a little teasing of his godson, promising to see him again at the trial and during the upcoming winter break.

The end result of the day's efforts was that the family arrived early that evening, stored their belongings in their chosen bedrooms, and sat down for the evening meal, tired but happy—at least in Harry's case—to be back in England.

It was at this point that Jean-Sebastian, having accomplished the welcoming of his new ward into the family and having moved his family to England, decided that it was time to follow up with his resolution to contact Dumbledore about the secret society of which he was the head.

He made his way to his office and made a Floo call—correctly deducing the Headmaster would be in his office at Hogwarts—asking for a quick meeting to discuss certain items of interest. Dumbledore readily assented, proposing they meet at Grimmauld Place to give Harry a chance to connect once again with his friends. It was done quickly, and a mere thirty minutes later, Jean-Sebastian was travelling through the Floo connection along with Harry and Fleur.

They stepped into the parlor, and Jean-Sebastian was gratified to see the greeting Harry received from his friends. He had heard much about Harry's friends over the past two days, particularly one Hermione Granger, who was at that very moment engulfing his new ward into a crushing embrace, much as she had done when they had arrived after the trial. It was good to know that Harry had a support group to rally around him—he suspected it would be needed in what was to come.

The only concern he had was fleeting and resolved quickly.

"Hey, guys," Harry began. "I'd like to introduce you all to my betrothed, Fleur Delacour."

The silence only lasted a moment before Hermione, visibly screwing herself up, stepped over and greeted the young French witch. "Hello, Fleur. My name is Hermione Granger. Welcome to Grimmauld Place."

Jean-Sebastian let out a relieved sigh, one which was echoed, he noticed, albeit in a much quieter fashion, by Fleur. His daughter returned the greeting hesitantly, but her smile was genuine and wide.

The twins approached Fleur, and each made bows, complete with elaborate flourishes, and smiled winning smiles at her.

"Any friend of Harry's is a friend of ours."

"She's his fiancée, George."

"I'm not George, I'm Fred! And I'd hope that she's his friend, too."

"_His_ friend? Wouldn't you like to be _her_ friend? And don't call yourself Fred when we both know I'm Fred."

"You're delusional. And of course I want to be her friend. Blokes like us look so much better when we have pretty friends."

"Shh… Don't say that too loud. You'll make little Harrikins angry for moving in on his girl."

"I'm not moving on his girl—just trying to make myself look better by basking in the light of her glory."

"Well, just as long as you make certain everyone knows you're George when you make a fool out of yourself, that's fine. I'd prefer you didn't sully my name."

"There you go again!"

"There I go? It's you who persists in thinking you're Fred."

"Well, then, I guess we'll just have fall back on our old standby."

"Gred and Forge?"

"Yes, but remember—I'm Gred."

"But I'm…"

"Will you two stop it already?" Hermione's voice interrupted. She was not precisely scowling at them, but her expression did hold a certain amused exasperation. She turned back to Fleur, who had been following their banter back and forth, much as she would have followed a tennis match.

"This is Fred and George, the Weasley twins. Don't let them get going, or they can go on for hours."

"Yup, that's us!" one of the twins piped in.

"You can call us Fred, George, Gred, Forge—it's all the same to us."

Fleur could not hold in a laugh at their antics, and she visibly relaxed, which was no doubt their purpose in their confusing duologue.

"Fleur will be attending Hogwarts this year," advised Harry. "She'll be in your year."

The two boys looked at one another before turning back to Fleur and favoring her with a huge smile. "Brilliant!" they exclaimed in unison.

"If you guys are quite finished, there are a couple of more introductions to complete."

Hermione turned to the other two redheaded children and quickly made the introductions. Their responses, however, were certainly not as welcoming and warm as the twins' had been. The youngest son, Ron, appeared too tongue-tied to formulate a coherent response—something with which Jean-Sebastian knew that Fleur was intimately familiar—and the girl, Ginevra, appeared to be sizing up Jean-Sebastian's daughter with a frown on her face.

_"So, _that's_ how it stands,"_ thought Jean-Sebastian. The evening of the trial, he had thought Mrs. Weasley and her daughter were a trifle cold, although he had not had the opportunity to observe them. The young woman in particular would bear keeping an eye on.

The door to the room opened at that moment, and the Headmaster walked in, greeting everyone cheerfully.

Once the pleasantries had been completed, Dumbledore invited Jean-Sebastian to a nearby study. Confident that his daughter would be well taken care of by Harry and his friends, Jean-Sebastian acquiesced, and they were soon leaving the room.

Their initial conversation consisted of pleasantries and discussions of the situation, punctuated by Dumbledore's approval of Jean-Sebastian's involvement in Harry's life.

"I am glad to hear young Harry is settling into his life with your family," Dumbledore finally stated after hearing Jean-Sebastian's recitation of the past few days. "I believe it will be good for him to witness firsthand how a wizarding family lives."

Jean-Sebastian directed a piercing stare at the Headmaster. "I must admit that I am uncertain as to why you left Harry with those Muggles. I had heard of their treatment of him, but even so, I was unprepared for what I witnessed. They treated him like he was diseased, Dumbledore, denying him the basics of human love and affection. I am amazed that he has turned out as well as he has."

At that moment, Albus Dumbledore looked every one of his 114 years. He passed a hand over his eyes and rubbed his temples briefly before raising his eyes back to his companion and sighing heavily.

"Unfortunately—or fortunately, perhaps—you don't know what it was like here after the war, Jean-Sebastian. The country was in celebration, yet—although Voldemort had been defeated—there was still some question as to who had supported the Dark Lord.

"Oh, certain Death Eaters were obvious and had been well-known supporters, with incontrovertible proof existing of their complicity and crimes—those such as the Lestranges, Mulciber and Crouch Jr. were easily convicted. They still reside in Azkaban to this day."

"And Malfoy? I understand he was as involved as anyone."

"And I am afraid you are correct. However, Malfoy was not known to have committed any crimes, although it is certain he did while in his Death Eater robes. He and others, such Walden Macnair, were more difficult to pin down, even though we had known of their participation and, more importantly, the fact that they had financed Voldemort's operations."

Jean-Sebastian gazed at Dumbledore in disbelief. "Then why was Veritaserum not used? I remember reports of the time that its use had been rejected, but the reasons were not clear."

"It was not as easy as you might think," Dumbledore responded, a thoughtful look etched upon his face. "We were in disarray, even with Voldemort's defeat, and our justice system was in shambles. The Minister approved the use of Veritaserum, but as the Wizengamot serves as the judicial branch of our government, they were able to overturn her directive. Therefore, people like Malfoy were able to claim the influence of the Imperius curse and successfully avoid their time in Azkaban. Unfortunately, I was not Chief Warlock at that time, and although I had been a member for years and had a certain amount of influence, I was not able to sway the Wizengamot away from that disastrous course."

"But why would the Wizengamot effectively hobble its own ability to deal out justice?"

"Because the Pureblood faction was concerned that they would lose their influence by virtue of the fact that many of their members had supported Voldemort and would lose their seats as a result. They were able to beg, buy, and threaten the rest of the Wizengamot to forego the use of Veritaserum, claiming it was an 'infringement on the rights of its most upstanding members.'"

The explanation made sense and matched what Jean-Sebastian remembered of the time. The reports from France had been sporadic and incomplete, and although Voldemort had made headlines in the French papers, wizarding France had at the time largely contented itself with viewing the situation as a British problem. To Jean-Sebastian, it had seemed more like a determination for them to stick their collective heads in the sand and ignore a situation which had the potential to become a huge international problem rather than merely a British one.

What he was not certain of, was exactly how this influenced Harry's placement with his mother's sister. Surely Dumbledore could have found someone trustworthy to raise the boy.

"And Harry?" he prompted.

"Harry presented a unique problem," Dumbledore answered. "Ideally, I would have placed him with Sirius, but given the fact that we all believed Sirius to be a traitor, I was not certain who to leave him with. I admit, there was a certain panic to my thoughts at the time—after all, if Sirius, who was closer than a brother to James, could be a traitor, anyone could be.

"So, I placed him with the one family I could be certain _was not _affiliated with the Death Eaters—knowing the Dursleys' aversion to magic, I knew that they would, at the very least, keep him safe from the Death Eaters as long as a strong set of wards was erected to keep his presence a secret. I used Lily's blood protection as a means to erect the wards which would keep him safe from discovery by any hostile magical. This was intended to be temporary until I found another solution."

"So, what happened?" Jean-Sebastian inquired. He was beginning to understand that Harry's residence at the Dursleys was an unfortunate string of circumstances and not the callous abandonment he had feared. At least, he hoped that was the case—it would be a disaster if Dumbledore proved to be untrustworthy. The man was far too important to the future fight, not to mention the fact that Jean-Sebastian's children would be under the man's authority for the better part of every year.

"That is when the second problem appeared," Dumbledore responded with a shrug. "I failed to predict the instant fame for the young boy and the outpouring of sympathy and support. Overnight, there were petitions and applications to provide him a home registered by the dozen, and I could not take the chance that someone less than trustworthy would have gained custody of him—that would have spelled disaster."

"You think they would have had him killed?"

Dumbledore's face was thoughtful. "That was one possible outcome. There was another, and both depended entirely upon how much information the Dark Lord had shared with his minions."

"What do you mean?"

"He—or at least his parents—were known to have been targeted by the Dark Lord himself. Therefore, if that is all that was known, then I think he would have been brought up, indoctrinated with the ideals of the Purebloods."

"But they recruited based on blood purity, and Harry is not a Pureblood."

"They were not as biased as they wanted everyone to believe," Dumbledore refuted. "All that was required for admittance was to show a sufficient level of personal loyalty to Voldemort, a thirst for power, and some level of blood purity. They did not accept Muggleborn members, but anyone with at least one magical parent was welcome with certain restrictions."

It made a certain amount of sense. After all, whatever else Voldemort had been, he was not stupid, and to limit his recruiting to a mere ten percent of the population when trying to take over a nation would have been short-sighted in the extreme.

"Then Harry in the hands of former Death Eaters would have been a problem."

"In more ways than one," Dumbledore responded. He then flicked his wand, and a series of privacy spells shot toward the door and the walls, effectively rendering them imperturbable and silenced. Jean-Sebastian raised an eyebrow at the Headmaster's actions, but Dumbledore merely smiled at him.

"What I am about to reveal to you must not leave the confines of this room. Although I don't believe anyone is listening to us, I cannot take that chance—the Weasley twins in particular are known to be ingenious inventors and have managed to ferret out some impressive secrets over the course of their short lives."

Jean-Sebastian gazed at the Headmaster. Although his words about the twins had been somewhat light and slightly amused, there was no amusement in his manner. Whatever he had to impart, he deemed it critical to Harry's safety—that was enough to convince Jean-Sebastian to follow his lead.

"Do you require a magical oath?"

Dumbledore nodded his approval. "Thank you for the offer, but no—I know your character through our interactions in the ICW and I believe you are devoted to Harry's protection. Your word will suffice."

"Then you have it."

"Very well. The reason Harry was targeted by Voldemort was a prophecy which was given to me when I was interviewing a candidate for the position of Divinations Professor the spring before Harry was born."

A frown came over Jean-Sebastian's face. "I must admit I have little faith in divination—are you certain it was a true prophecy?"

"I witnessed it myself," Dumbledore responded. "I too have little use for the branch of magic in general, but she did not use her accoutrements when making this prediction. It was a classic case of a seer entering a trance, reciting a prophecy, and not remembering it afterward, and its existence was recorded in the hall of prophecy. If you will recall, prophecies are kept by the most ancient and powerful of magics—once I had verified its existence there, I knew it was a true prophecy.

"Now, the existence of the prophecy would not have been a problem if Voldemort had never found out. Unfortunately, a young Death Eater happened to be listening outside the room and heard part of it himself. Of course, he immediately ran to his master to tell him what he had heard, but not having heard the entire foretelling, Voldemort acted in a completely different manner than he would have if he had known the missing pieces."

It was everything Dumbledore had said it was… and worse than Jean-Sebastian had expected. Yet there were still unanswered questions.

"But how did you know of this if the Death Eater immediately went to his master with the information?"

"I knew him," Dumbledore answered simply. "He was young and idealistic and believed—correctly, in my opinion—that there were many things about the wizarding world which needed to be changed. Unfortunately, he chose the wrong engine of change, and has paid the price ever since. Once he had realized the implications of what he had set in motion and understood Voldemort's plans, he came to me immediately and confessed all. Since that time, he has been a double agent—a spy in Voldemort's camp who has remained in that role to this day."

So, a traitor had caused the death of Jean-Sebastian's childhood friend. He already knew of Pettigrew and yearned for the chance to mete out justice to the rat, but this man had set the events in motion. A burning fire lit itself in his heart, and he glared at the Headmaster. "Who was it?"

Shaking his head, Dumbledore directed a level gaze back at his companion. "There is no reason to share that with you and every reason to keep it to myself. For his protection and for the invaluable information he brings to me, especially with Voldemort now returned, I must keep his identity a secret."

Jean-Sebastian peered at Dumbledore, his emotions roiling. "How can you be certain this man is not playing you as well?"

"Because I hold something over him," Dumbledore replied quietly, his eyes flashing in annoyance. "I am many things and have made mistakes, Jean-Sebastian, but do not ever think I am stupid. As soon as the Death Eater came to me, I ensured his compliance and engineered his loyalty—he risks his life on a daily basis and has proven his worth."

Still unhappy with Dumbledore's refusal to divulge the name, Jean-Sebastian nodded his head curtly. "I want to know the moment anything changes," he demanded, to which Dumbledore responded with a nod. "Then what is this prophecy?"

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. … Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies … and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. … The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…_"

A chill in the air seemed to settle into Jean-Sebastian's very bones as the words of the seer filled the room. The language was certainly that of prophecy, filled with obscure references and predictions which could be understood in many different ways, and Jean-Sebastian could only speculate that it was a true foretelling when Dumbledore's testimony of his origins was examined.

"That is truly a vague prediction," Jean-Sebastian finally stated after some thought.

"Indeed it is. But when it is examined, I think one can gain a clearer picture of what it foretells.

"The first lines are unclear, stating only that the child would be born to those who faced the Dark Lord three times and survived and that he would be born near or at the end of July."

"What about September? It was the seventh month of the Roman calendar."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in response. "I had considered that. However, due to the fact that September was still several months away and the other requirements could not be fulfilled, I concluded that it must be July. There were two young boys who fit the bill—Harry Potter and one other. And it was only the first two lines that the Death Eater heard that day; otherwise; Voldemort's actions would likely have been completely different.

"It is the third line which proves that the prophecy was made about Harry—when Voldemort attacked the Potters in 1981, he left Harry with a scar which 'marked him as his equal.' He could have attacked the other young boy, but for reasons only Voldemort himself can reveal, he chose to attack the Potters. I can only assume the other boy would have been next had he succeeded."

"And the power the Dark Lord knows not?"

"Unclear," Dumbledore responded. "However, I believe that power to be the power of love. Voldemort never knew love as a young man, and I believe he has no comprehension of its power or the lengths most people will go to in order to protect loved ones. The only witnesses to that night are dead, outside of a small boy who could not possibly remember what happened, much less understand it. In piecing together the events which took place, I postulated that Lily Potter placed a blood-based protection on her son which was sealed by her death, which is why Harry survived the killing curse."

The explanation made a certain amount of sense—there were many old and forgotten magics in the world, and it was very possible that a mother could have used one of the most powerful positive emotions to protect her son.

"So this 'power he knows not' has been used up?"

"Not necessarily," Dumbledore disagreed. "Harry, despite his childhood with the Dursleys, appears to have an amazing capacity for love. And don't forget the entry of your daughter into the equation—aren't Veela powers largely based on love?"

A chill once again swept through Jean-Sebastian at the Headmaster's words. Had he unknowingly provided Harry with the means of the ultimate defeat of the Dark Lord? And what part did his daughter have to play? Could she have somehow been destined to join with Harry in defeating the Dark Lord? The possibilities boggled the mind, and Jean-Sebastian was momentarily surprised that he had not seen it himself.

"So, you believe the power manifested itself on the night Voldemort was vanquished… and still has some part to play."

"In short, yes. There may be other pieces which must still come into play, but those will have to reveal themselves at the appropriate time."

After a little more thought, Jean-Sebastian thought he understood why the Headmaster had acted the way he had. "And the fact that the prophecy specifically says that one of them must die means it does not refer to the night Harry's parents were murdered."

"Exactly," Dumbledore confirmed. "The term 'vanquish' suggests that once Harry had survived that night when Voldemort was defeated, the prophecy could have been fulfilled. Yet the fourth line says that they are destined to meet and that someday one of them must kill the other. Whatever happened that night, it is certain that Voldemort did not 'die' at Harry's hand—it was his mother's sacrifice, or so I believe, which resulted in his downfall."

"That is a substantial amount of supposition and speculation on which to base your entire strategy."

A shrug met his declaration. "It is, but the Dark Lord's return seems to support the theory. Voldemort had been known to claim that he had gone further down the path to immortality than any other, so I believe he was not truly killed that night. He was certainly disembodied, but he wasn't truly defeated. Harry is the only one who can bring about his demise."

Although wary to take such a nebulous prediction at face value, Jean-Sebastian knew the time to ponder it for himself was not here. Dumbledore's interpretation certainly seemed valid, and for now, it seemed as though the best course of action was to be cautious and act as though it was the literal truth.

"There is still a certain vagueness, but it is certainly plausible."

"Ah, unfortunately, my friend, all prophecy is such," Dumbledore agreed with aplomb. "We can never be sure until after the events have concluded. We can only base our actions on what we believe, and we must adapt as events demand."

"Has Harry been told?" Jean-Sebastian knew his question was blunt, but although he already knew the answer, he wanted to know why this information had been kept from him.

"No, I have not told Harry," Dumbledore responded, and he continued before Jean-Sebastian could make any further comment. "It _is_ a heavy burden for a young man to bear. I believe Harry to be supremely capable and confident, but I do not think he is ready for this."

"When do you mean to tell him, then?"

Dumbledore thought for a few moments before he made any comment. "I had thought to see how he does this year and then tell him by about his sixteenth birthday. Much will depend upon his maturity level and whether I believe he can handle it."

Though he was still not convinced, Jean-Sebastian understood the Headmaster's point. "I have promised not to keep anything from Harry—my daughter was most insistent on this. However, I believe you may be right in this case. But he must be told, Dumbledore, and sooner rather than later."

"I will think on it further."

Jean-Sebastian nodded. "In that case, I think we should talk about my purpose for coming here tonight."

A wave of Dumbledore's hand, and Jean-Sebastian continued. "I would like to know more about this order you have established."

"You wish to join."

Jean-Sebastian shook his head. "Unfortunately, I do not know enough about it yet to determine my actions. _If_ it is what I suspect it is, then I may very well join, but I would like to know more first, attend some meetings, and generally see how you handle things before I make any commitments."

"That would be acceptable," Dumbledore replied with a nod. "I formed the Order to directly combat Voldemort's forces during the first war when it became evident the Ministry was… shall we say, less than effective in dealing with the Dark Lord. We carried out many activities, such as intelligence gathering, combat, and security provision. I have been reforming it for the upcoming conflict and recruiting new members—I do not believe the Ministry will be any more effective now than they were fifteen years ago.

"The next meeting will be held here next Saturday, and you are welcome to attend if you would like."

"I will be here," Jean-Sebastian affirmed. "Of course, as the French Ambassador, I will be limited in what I can do overtly, but if I should choose to join, you may be assured of my full support."

"Of course."

"That brings us to one more item—I have spoken with Harry and believe that some specialized training would be advisable. I don't think that the things he will learn in school will be enough for what he has to face."

"An excellent idea!" Dumbledore approved. "I had planned to start his training this year in any case. I presume you wished to get an early start?"

When Jean-Sebastian confirmed that was his intent, Dumbledore continued. "In that case, might I suggest Alastor Moody as a trainer? I doubt you could find anyone more knowledgeable, especially at such short notice."

Jean-Sebastian did know of the man's reputation. He experienced a moment of concern, knowing that Moody had been impersonated by the man who had engineered Harry's capture and the return of the Dark Lord during the Tri-Wizard, but that was swiftly quashed. Harry could have no reason to distrust the man himself.

"Auror Moody would be acceptable. Please contact him and see if he is agreeable. If he is, have him contact me and we can set it up."

Their conversation concluded, Jean-Sebastian rose and shook Dumbledore's hand and exited the room. He was now armed with crucial knowledge which would assist him in ensuring Harry's safety and ultimate survival, and he intended to make good use of it.

* * *

Although Hermione was happy to see her friend, she could not help but feel tense and unsettled.

It was not that she was not happy for him—that could not be further from the truth. In fact, though Harry had never shared the details of his life with his relatives, she had guessed what his home life had been like. The Delacours appeared to be a godsend for Harry, and she was happy he had found some acceptance and affection from a good and loving family.

No, what had brought Hermione to her current state of disquiet was a part of her she had though she had left behind years ago.

Simply put, Hermione was afraid and insecure. Part of her was still the timid young girl whose only friends had been the ones she had found in the pages of her favorite books. And though she told herself she was being silly and that Harry had experienced the same lack of friends as she had, she still could not shake the lingering fear she felt at seeing him interact with Fleur and the rest of his friends. Surely Harry would never shunt her aside now that he had a fiancée.

But although she knew in her heart that Harry was not the type to toss her aside on a whim, her head would not listen and she fretted. He seemed so much happier now—his face truly shone when he spoke, he traded banter with the twins, and every time he looked at Fleur it seemed as though they were communing on a different level. How could she—Hermione Jane _Bookworm_ Granger—ever hope to compete with the luminous beauty of Fleur Delacour, Veela goddess and Tri-Wizard champion?

Her world had been centered around him ever since they had entered Hogwarts together—how would she ever cope if he drifted away from her? The trio would cease to exist, and her one other friend would drift away as well. It was Harry who kept the trio together, Harry who bridged the gap between her and Ron. If he was removed from the equation, Hermione had little doubt Ron would initially bask in the chance to win her before quickly losing interest after seeing they had nothing in common. She would be left friendless and alone, as she had been before.

She did not know how long she watched her friends laughing and joking, but her reticence did not go unnoticed for long. Soon, she saw Harry sneaking her curious glances, concern evident on his features. She blushed and tried to hide her anxiety under a veneer of nonchalance, but Harry had been her friend for five years now—he knew her better than almost anyone else and could almost sense her unrest.

He disengaged from his other friends and turned his attention on her, a questioning expression on his face.

"Hermione, are you all right?"

She squirmed and tried to avoid him, but he was there, patience and affection rolling off him in waves. Her heart melted at the sight, and she relaxed slightly, although her head still refused to cooperate.

"I'm fine, Harry," she finally managed in a tremulous voice.

"You don't sound fine to me," Harry countered with a frown. "Now, why don't you tell me what is bothering you?"

Unable to divert him, Hermione blurted the first thing which came into her mind. "You _are_ still my friend, right?"

The full gambit of emotions ran over Harry's face—from disbelief to confusion, through suspicion, and finally to speculative amusement.

"Hermione Jane Granger, what on earth are you blathering on about?"

Then he winked at her and continued in a cheeky tone. "I've wanted to do that for _ages_! Usually, it's _you_ who uses _my_ full name!"

"Harry James Potter!" Hermione mockingly scolded, causing them both to collapse in laughter.

"Seriously, Hermione," Harry said, once they had both regained their composure, "did you really think this change in my life would change _anything_ between you and me?"

Hermione felt all the embarrassment for ever doubting him, yet within the confines of her own mind, she still felt she was justified for her fears.

"Hermione," Harry interrupted her thoughts. "You do know that you are my _best friend_, don't you? This is a change in my life, but I would hope that nothing will ever come between us. You've been the one person who has always been there for me. You were there to the end when I faced Quirrel and the stone, provided me with the key to the secret of the basilisk, and then flew with me on Buckbeak in third year. And I can't even describe how valuable your support was last year when even half the members of my own House were angry with me for besmirching Gryffindor's honor by entering the tournament, while the other half congratulated me on circumventing the rules. You were the _only one_ who believed me implicitly and without reservation. Do you have any idea what you mean to me?"

A blushing Hermione nevertheless grabbed her closest friend and give him a massive hug, one which was returned with interest. The relief she felt was indescribable, and she felt tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

Harry, pulling away, noticed her tears and wiped them away with the pads of his thumbs, all the while smiling at her affectionately.

"Now, let's hear no more about this, all right?"

Hermione nodded her head happily, pleased to acquiesce to his request.

At that moment, the door opened, and in walked Dumbledore and Mr. Delacour. Hermione noticed the French Ambassador's curious look in their direction but was too happy to do anything but smile in response.

"Harry, Fleur, it is time to return to the manor," Mr. Delacour stated, addressing his charges.

"Yes, J.S."

"Before we go, would you like to ask your friends if they would like to join you?"

Nodding, Harry turned to his friends. "Jean-Sebastian is setting up some training for Fleur and me and said it was okay for Ron and Hermione to join me. Would you guys like to?"

Their answers were immediate and fervent, and Hermione beamed in gratitude for his continued support and thoughts about her.

But there was one among the group who was not happy with the development. Ginny gazed longingly at Harry, and although she did not say anything, she appeared hurt that she had not been invited as well. Still uncomfortable with Ginny's continued unwillingness to give him up, Hermione nevertheless empathized with the young girl. She cleared her voice and spoke in a diffident manner.

"Excuse me, Mr. Delacour," she began. "Since we're all in danger, why don't we open up the training group to include others? That way, Harry will always have a group of his friends to support him and defend him if need be, and the rest of us will get advanced training which will help us in the future."

Mr. Delacour peered at her with a half smile forming on his face. "I can see why they call you the smartest witch of your generation, Miss Granger."

Hermione felt her cheeks burn in pleasure at his compliment.

"But I will only acquiesce if you call me J.S., like your friend does."

Smiling happily, Hermione nodded her assent.

Jean-Sebastian turned to Harry. "I'm sure Auror Moody can take on a few more students. The Weasleys may all join, and if there are any others, please let us know, and we will arrange for them to be included."

And it was done—Hermione was pleased with the outcome of the evening. She would continue to be Harry's closest friend and would be involved with his life. Her earlier distress now seemed silly and childish, and when she thought about it, she knew Harry would never have cast her off. Still, it was a relief to be able to settle her fears.

* * *

There was another who had witnessed the events of the evening but could not find the same satisfaction in its results. Ron had overheard Hermione's conversation with Harry, and his friends were a little too close for Ron's comfort. After all, Ron was aware of the fact that Harry, as the last Potter, was almost required to take a second wife—the realization had come soon after his friend left the last time, causing his smugness to depart rather precipitously. He was desperate to prevent Hermione from being that second wife. The fact that they were still only fifteen did not penetrate his consciousness—right then, the need to keep them separated was paramount.

In addition, Ron was somewhat offended that Harry had named Hermione as his best friend—that was his title by right! How dare Potter claim such a ridiculous thing?

As indignation and unhappiness swelled within him, Ron thought about Hermione and how he could prevent Harry from making a move on her. He would have to move quickly himself and get to her before Harry could do the same to him. This was one contest with the other boy that Ron did not intend to lose.

* * *

_Updated 05/09/2013_


	8. Chapter 7 – Attack and Counterattack

**Chapter 7 – Attack and Counterattack**

The Monday after the trial, Harry gathered with his new betrothed and his friends, and waited for the man who would be giving them some training in combat which Harry was certain he would end up needing sooner, rather than later.

Their group had expanded more than Harry and Fleur had expected. Looking around the room, Harry considered each one of his companions and thought about his relationship with them and their reasons for being there. Hermione and Ron were obvious of course, their friendship forged through four years of almost constant companionship. Though Harry's relationship with Ron had been strained by his friend's actions at the outset of the Triwizard Tournament, he knew Ron would be there when it most counted. Ron was a little flaky at times, but he was loyal. Hermione was not even a question—in one way or another, he had been the center of her world—and he of hers—since they had met on the train. She would never be left out where he was involved.

Fleur was, of course, a given in this endeavor. Not only was she now his intended, but in the few days in which they had had to become better acquainted, he had come to know her as a fierce defender of those who she considered family—clearly, Harry now fit into that group. It was humbling and overwhelming to be considered part of a real family—something he had never had before—but Harry was grateful for her caring and concern.

Likewise, Ginny's motivations were no secret—or at least they were not now that Hermione had explained her actions. What surprised Harry about Ginny was the change that appeared to have come over her since they had met again only two days prior. Upon arriving at the ambassador's manor, Ginny had visibly screwed up her courage and approached him, greeting him with none of the embarrassment and shyness he had expected from her in the past. The annoying squeak was gone, and for that Harry could only be pleased—he hoped to get to know her better, as he suspected she could turn out to be a close friend.

The twins lounged in the corner of the room, speaking quietly with one another, no doubt planning their pranks for the coming year. Not only were they fun to hang out with, but Harry also trusted them—at least he trusted them to have his back when it mattered. In the matter of their pranking, no one was safe from their attentions, but at least Harry knew none of their jokes were meant in a malicious manner. Their presence was also a given, as they had always supported him.

The difficult ones to place were the last two in the room. Neville Longbottom stood speaking with Hermione in quiet tones, his manner as shy and self-effacing as ever, as had been his appearance that morning. Hermione had suggested including him, and with Harry's agreement she made the overture. Harry had been surprised when Neville agreed. While he had not yet had a chance to talk to Neville, he knew the boy considered himself to be a failure—his confidence could only be helped by this undertaking, and Harry figured that was at least part of the reason for his presence.

Finally, his eyes rested upon the final member of their little group—Luna Lovegood. Not knowing her in the slightest, Harry was uncertain as to her presence. He understood that she was a childhood friend of Ginny's—who had invited her to become a member of the little group—but beyond that, his contact with her had been limited to a few words of greeting spoken that very morning. She was sitting by herself, a slight smile on her face while she looked off into the distance at something which only she could see. Hermione told him she was very intelligent, but her ways were somewhat fanciful and odd. Deciding to reserve judgment for himself, Harry had greeted her in a friendly manner, which she had returned with a like sentiment.

Together, Harry was hoping they would make a potent force in the fight against Voldemort. They were all, he suspected—with the exception of Neville, who could not seem to get anything right, and Luna, who he did not know anything about—among the most powerful of their age group, something which would only continue to develop as they matured.

After a few minutes of waiting, the sound of the professor's approach—the characteristic thud-stomp of his gait—was heard through the door, and the man entered, his eye rotating wildly, presumably searching for enemies. He stopped inside the door and regarded the assembled youths with an unreadable expression.

"So you're the recruits I'm to be saddled with," he ground out grumpily.

From behind him, Jean-Sebastian slipped into the room, a wry smile on his face as he watched the showdown between teacher and students. He took a seat in a chair at the back of the room and settled in to watch.

"All right then, let's all get in a line side-to-side, facing me," Moody barked out, turning his back to close the door, clearly expecting his orders to be followed.

A few moments later, the young students were arranged to his liking, he turned back to them with an unreadable expression. The man stumped around the room inspecting his charges for several moments, correcting posture where he found it lacking, admonishing the lack of care of a wand, or an expression lacking the appropriate gravity—the Weasley twins, specifically, were reproved for their irrepressible humor and lightheartedness.

At length he trudged back to the front of the group and once again observed them with a critical eye.

"First, you will all understand that this is no lark," he snapped, peering at each of them in turn. "Anyone who does not treat this with the appropriate level of seriousness will be asked to leave—no exceptions."

He began stumping in front of Harry and his friends, his eyes still affixed upon them as he passed each one. "Death Eaters are deadly serious, and they depend upon ruthlessness and brute force to instill fear in their enemies, and possess the power and the will to use their knowledge for the support of their master. In short, they will kill—and have killed—without a second thought. And killing is not even the worst of their crimes. You are all targets, either by circumstance, your family's political and social beliefs, or by the simple matter of your birth.

"I am here to try to give you the basics in learning how to defend yourselves, not only with the use of curses and hexes, but also in employing various stratagems, learning to outthink your opponents, and above all, knowing when to fight and when to retreat. The last might be the most important thing you will learn. You must never be too proud to admit you are overmatched—living to fight another day must always be your goal in any engagement, as dying in an untenable situation will not help anyone."

Moody was now walking behind them, but the trainees kept their eyes forward. Moody's manner, his words and way of instructing them reminded Harry of certain old war movies he had chanced to see glimpses of in his uncle's house. Vernon had considered himself to be somewhat of a connoisseur of such films and had watched them frequently.

"Now, I do not have the time to teach you everything," Moody continued. "In two weeks you will return to Hogwarts, where I will not be a professor this year. Regardless, as I have other tasks which require my attention, I would not be available to hold your hands. I will try to give you some measure of my experience so that when you leave here, you will be better prepared.

He completed the circle and stopped in front of them, facing the students once more, his face as impassive as when he had entered the room.

"Ground rules! I expect each of you to obey my commands immediately and with no question. I also expect that each of you will give your best effort—if you do not, there is no point in your being here. Finally, I expect you all to practice constant vigilance—there is no way of knowing if someone is a Death Eater unless you are able to check their arm. And the friend you think you know may not even be that, as there are other ways for an enemy to get close to you. Simple Polyjuice potion can be used against you, not to mention the Imperius curse which will turn your friends into your enemies. Practicing watchfulness, and spotting things which are not as they appear, may save your life one day."

He scanned them once again, before his eye alighted on Harry. "Mr. Potter!" he boomed, startling Harry to stand up straighter. "I believe you have seen the Unforgivable Curses in action. What is the best defense against an Unforgivable?"

Harry considered the question for a moment. "I would say it is best not to be caught in the curse's path."

A smile, almost like a grimace, came over Moody's face. "A very good defense indeed. Listen to Mr. Potter's answer—no shield will work against the Unforgivable Curses, and you had better not be there when one is cast at you.

"Other than that, the only way to defend against them is the use of the summoning charm to intercept the beam—which can be a tricky piece of timing, I can tell you—or the use of battle transfiguration for the same purpose. We will cover both of these defenses, and although I do not expect any of you to master them for some time, I do expect you to give your best effort and learn the basics, which you will then practice.

"We will also be covering the art of dueling and you will learn some of the basic concepts which duelists will use to get a leg up on their opponents. However, you must remember that while dueling is a very important foundation upon which to build, it will _not_ get you through a life and death struggle in a true combat situation. The art of dueling has a set of rules by which each duelist must abide—of course, a true fight does not have any rules, nor could you expect a Death Eater to abide by any such rules if they did exist.

"A fight with a Death Eater will generally be short and dirty, with each of you using every trick you can think of to get the better of the other. Clear your thoughts of long drawn out struggles between two titans which fill literature, as they have no place in the real world. I will teach you how to duel first and then I will teach you how to fight. There are some tricks you can learn which will help you to gain the upper hand, and I'm certain that some of the other adults will have some valuable things to teach you in addition. Learn everything you can—you never know when a piece of insignificant knowledge will save your life."

He once again paused and gazed at each of the youths in turn. "Again, you will not be able to master these techniques in the brief time we have available, but by the time you return to Hogwarts, you will at least have a foundation in these subjects, and I will give you further exercises for you to use while you are at school to hone your skills. Assuming you all do well, we will continue these sessions next summer.

"Now, does everyone understand?"

"Yes, sir," the group intoned.

They started with some simple stances, the professor teaching them how best to position themselves and to move, stating that good balance was key to being able to not only fight, but also to defend oneself. From the balancing instruction, the moved to various exercises which would help them shift from stance to stance, as well as to dodge, roll, and otherwise ensure that they could move about during a combat situation in the most efficient manner, while retaining their ability to respond to attacks. And though there were some grumbles from the assembled students of how they wanted to get to the dueling and fighting, Moody was firm, telling them repeatedly that they needed to learn to walk before they could even think about running.

What struck Harry throughout the course of the day was the man himself. He was fair but strict, exacting a high level of commitment from his charges, while putting his all into teaching them what he felt they needed to know. He was clearly knowledgeable, if his years as a top Auror had not already convinced them of his fitness, and the manner in which he taught them was concise and exact, yet his words and demonstrations were designed to be quickly understood and acted upon. When questioned, he told them that the methods he was teaching them were quite similar to what trainee Aurors were taught, modified slightly to account for their younger years and incomplete education. He was effusive with his praise, especially toward Harry, who he almost seemed to consider a prodigy who was his personal responsibility. Harry returned the favor by giving his all, picking up the exercises with ease and helping to instruct the others where required. DADA had always been Harry's favorite class—he was enjoying himself immensely.

But what surprised Harry the most, was the sense of familiarity he had with the professor. In fact, if Harry had not known that the Professor Moody he remembered from his fourth year Defense Against the Dark Arts class was an imposter, he would never have believed that they were not the same person. Whatever Barty Crouch, Jr. had been, a poor actor was not one of them. The man should have been presented an Academy Award, based on the minute details of the grizzled Auror which he had acted out so flawlessly.

There was one memorable event which occurred during the course of the day. Moody had just asked them to do some basic spell casting using the stances he had just taught them, when he pulled up short at the sight of Neville struggling to cast a simple spell through his wand.

"Mr. Longbottom! What appears to be the matter?"

Neville blushed and stammered that everything was fine, but that did not placate the observant Auror.

"Do not try to cover up your struggles, son," Moody admonished. "You appear to be trying to force your spell through your wand, when your magic should be working in tandem with the wand to produce the desired effect. Where did you get that wand?"

"From my G-Grandmother," Neville stammered. "It was my father's."

Moody's remaining eye widened at Neville's admission and he held his hand out, inspecting it carefully once Neville had deposited it in his hand.

"I knew your parents, Mr. Longbottom," he said quietly, "the same as I knew Mr. Potter's." He nodded in Harry's direction. "Good people, excellent Aurors, they were. I was privileged to serve with them.

"Unfortunately, it appears to me that your wand does not match you, which makes casting anything very difficult. I recommend you visit Mr. Ollivander's shop and purchase a new wand which will match you more closely. If you don't, you will have trouble casting even the simplest magic for the rest of your life."

Neville appeared flabbergasted. "Really? But Gran… I thought I could use my father's wand because of our close relationship."

Moody shook his head and clasped Neville around the shoulders. "While it _is_ true that children often have somewhat of an affinity for their parents' wands, we are all different and there is no guarantee. You go today after we are finished here and get a new wand. Tell your grandmother that I insisted. I don't think she will be upset—you will always have a piece of your father with you, as long as you possess his wand."

Thanking him, Neville moved away to continue his exercises, while appearing deep in thought. Harry was glad for his friend—while he could understand wishing to keep something of his parents' close to him, Mr. Ollivander's words from his visit still echoed through his mind. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter." Hopefully, Neville would improve once he had his new wand.

The day ended with another pep talk from the professor, and they all separated to go their separate ways. In Harry's mind he felt as though he was finally beginning to obtain the skills he would require to take on Voldemort. It was a welcome feeling.

* * *

"I hereby call this session of the Wizengamot of Britain to order!"

Albus Dumbledore surveyed the Wizengamot chambers, thinking, with some distraction, that this was the first meeting of the English legislative body since Harry's trial the previous week. There would undoubtedly be some fireworks—especially a certain piece of legislation which he had found through his contacts would be presented. He was not disappointed.

The meeting started much the same as any other, with talks of the state of country, any news as to the activities of known Death Eaters (Fudge's denial of the Dark Lord's return making the topic of Voldemort specifically taboo), budgets—including a call for the Ministry to increase the Auror budget, which Dumbledore had proposed himself—and the other unexciting, yet necessary minutia which characterized any other meeting of the august body.

The arrival of the legislative portion of the meeting signaled the beginning of the true battle to be waged that day. When the Ministry propositions had been dealt with, Dumbledore opened the floor to private members' bills, and, as expected, the unsightly, pink cardigan-clad figure of the Minister's lackey stood and cleared her voice with her customary, "Hem, hem."

"Honored members," she began in her shrill voice, "I stand before you today outraged as one of our long-established institutions is under attack from forces which would see it tarnished and reduced to a shadow of its former glory."

A murmur welled up in the chamber at the woman's audacious and inflammatory words, and Dumbledore sat back and listened with a half smile on his face. _This_ was politics at its finest (so to speak); impassioned speeches, outrage, and the playing upon the emotions, traditions, and solidarity of the body in order to accomplish a purpose.

Regardless, Dumbledore thought with a sardonic smile, Umbridge was a duffer in the political arena and her words—while she was doing a credible job of liberally sprinkling her speech with provocative statements—were not as affective as they would have been had they been delivered by a true orator. Umbridge—and by extension Minister Fudge, and Dumbledore assumed his financial backer Malfoy—would lose the vote here today, and would have even if Dumbledore had not held an ace up his sleeve.

"While perhaps some of you may not be aware of the threat to our way of life, I am certain all will be incensed by what I have to say here today. Our beloved national education institution of Hogwarts, which many of you here today attended in your youths, is on the brink of accepting those who should truly be kept away from its hallowed halls.

"Case in point, I direct you to our esteemed Headmaster, who also leads this body, and question some of the decisions he has made with regard to who is allowed to attend our beloved institution. In fact, we all know of the dark creature he allowed to teach our children, and we know that that same dark creature was allowed to attend Hogwarts many years ago as a student. How can he justify this travesty?"

She sneered at Dumbledore, the curl of her lip completely incongruous with the lurid pink of her robes and the nasally whine of her voice. Dumbledore almost laughed aloud at the spectacle she was making of herself and wondered why the minister would saddle himself with her—likely because she was the only one he could induce to take him seriously.

A quick glance at the Minister revealed his attention on the pink-clad woman, but his face betrayed no emotion as he listened to her words. Dumbledore knew Minister Fudge was a willing conspirator in this attempt, but that concept had been the Undersecretary's. The Minister himself, however, wished to keep himself aloof and maintain the fiction he stood for the people, rather than the highest bidder, which was why he had left it to her.

"In response to this grievous threat, I have come before this body today with a proposal to bar those unfit from attending our beloved institution, or any of our other schools in Britain." The woman's eyes fairly glowed with her fanatical devotion and self-righteous indignation, and she cast her eyes about the chamber, her gaze almost seeming to imperiously demand the cooperation of the Wizengamot. "The copies of the proposed law are being distributed by the clerks. In considering this legislation, I would ask each of you to truly consider what is best for our land, and whether we wish to educate those creatures who mean us harm so they may further perpetrate their nefarious deeds against us all. I thank you for your time, and ask for your support and your honorable attention in this matter."

The member sat down and Dumbledore, once he had received the parchment detailing the Undersecretary's proposition, glanced down the sheet, taking in the details of her foolhardy plan. It was similar to other documents he had seen over the years, rife with pureblood dogma and full of defamatory and incendiary statements. It was nothing less than he would have expected from such a short-sighted woman.

After a few moments had passed, Dumbledore set the parchment down on the desk in front of him, and steepled his fingers in front of him as he considered the matter at hand. The Wizengamot was a conservative body, it was true, but it was not necessarily a forum for blood purists and bigots. Like any other organization, it had its share of factions ranging from the true Pureblood fanatics, right down through the spectrum to the moderates who knew there was no basis to Voldemort's dogma. In fact, the truly fanatical members were very small in number, and those who sympathized with their beliefs, although not overt followers of the Dark Lord, were only slightly more numerous. Like most groups of intelligent beings gathered together, the majority of those in the group were intelligent, honest, and reasonable, with only a few zealots who sometimes gave the entire group a poor reputation.

Which was why Dumbledore was somewhat puzzled with the Minister's move. Even without the threat of Harry leaving Britain to attend Beauxbatons, there was little chance of this bill ever being passed. Dumbledore fancied that he had more than enough support to overrule Umbridge's bill with little to no trouble. What could Fudge mean by it? Was this a prelude to something else, or was the minister so ineffectual that he actually thought he would pass this tripe just because he wished it?

It was a problem for another time, perhaps—the rustling of parchment had largely ceased, and more than one member was now looking to him to initiate the debate.

"Thank you, Madam Umbridge," Dumbledore said, rising to his feet. "A proposal for a new law has been put before the Wizengamot. I now invite discussion on the bill before we put it to a vote."

There were a few murmurs as the members discussed the issue amongst themselves. A man stood on the far end of the chambers, motioning that he would like to speak. Dumbledore bowed affably and recognized him. "Jonas Strong has the floor."

The man bowed in response before directing his gaze across the chamber. Strong was a tall, handsome man in his middle years, and though he was normally an intelligent and somewhat moderate sort of man, he had a disturbing tendency to vote with the Pureblood block on seemingly random occasions.

"Thank you, Chief Warlock. Before we get into discussion of this… bill Madam Umbridge has put before us, I wish to discuss this issue she raised of a werewolf who attended Hogwarts. I must say that I—and many of my colleagues—were surprised to find that not only had such a dark creature attended the institution, but also that he was hired to teach one of the core courses. I would like to ask the Headmaster to account for this."

Smiling, Dumbledore rose and stood before the chamber. "I might remind Member Strong, that though werewolves are _technically_ deemed to be dark creatures, they are only truly dangerous on one night in a lunar month, unless they are known to be an insane criminal such as Fenrir Greyback. The student in question was never a danger to the student population—he was sequestered during his night every month. Besides, as per the Hogwarts charter, I have no authority to deny anyone an education who wishes it—as I told our esteemed Minister only days ago," he nodded at Minister Fudge, who had allowed a slight frown to come over his face, "the charter is very clear on this matter."

Dumbledore glanced around the room, seeing the nods of agreement on the faces of many. This was the true measure of a politician, and Dumbledore was, at heart, a political animal. "As for the professor, the same precautions were taken during his tenure. You are all well aware of the difficulty in finding suitable professors for the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and having to find a replacement every year is difficult and taxing. In addition, I believe that if you were to ask the students, the majority of them would declare that the professor in question was the best teacher I have been able to find for the post in several years. If not for the outcry against his being employed at Hogwarts, I would still have him as a professor, I assure you."

Strong said nothing in response—he merely nodded and sat, seemingly considering the matter in a thoughtful manner.

"This is all very interesting," Madam Longbottom interrupted, "but I believe we had best focus on the present, rather than discussing the past."

The Longbottoms—truly ambassadors for the light, and had been for several centuries. The current matriarch was a tough, no-nonsense woman, who had stood for her family for more than thirty years since the death of her late husband. A more formidable political foe was difficult to find, though her choice of headwear was somewhat suspect…

"Your proposal, Madam Umbridge, is very… interesting." The Undersecretary's face darkened at the contemptuous way in which Lady Longbottom expressed her opinion of the bill. "But, in essence, I believe that this bill is a measure to prevent those undesirables from attending any of our educational institutions, am I correct?"

Umbridge nodded, a pleasant—and patently insincere—expression plastered upon her face.

"In that case, Undersecretary, I wonder at the wording of your proposal. In particular, you use the word 'creature' several times over in this document. However, I would like to know who would determine the definition of the word, in light of the many disparate peoples with whom we come in daily contact."

"I second Madam Longbottom's question," Dumbledore interrupted. "For example, does creature refer to any who are not human? And if so, what about those who are of mixed blood? There are those who are part goblin, giant, and some who have fairy blood, among others. How do they fall into this definition of yours?"

"An important question to be sure," Umbridge simpered. "We shall designate a committee to study the matter and come to a determination as to the precise definition."

"A committee designated by you?" Amelia Bones snapped.

"The _Minister_ is responsible for enacting the laws passed by this body into law. _He_ shall set up the commission to determine the exact standards of those we allow into our school system."

"Do you not think it dangerous to pass a law which does not clearly define its own aims, Madam Umbridge?" asked Lady Longbottom. "It seems to me that if you wish to deprive certain beings access to various benefits of society, that you had best classify exactly what—and whom—is being denied."

"Exactly!" another voice spoke up. Porter Friesinger was a moderate whose family had come to Britain some centuries early from Germany, and were also rumored to claim fairy blood in their past, though the family was largely Pureblood from the time they emigrated. "I should not like to vote for a law which would prevent my own family from gaining an education."

"Mr. Friesinger, I am certain we can come to some accommodation and make an exception for… certain members of good standing, whose loyalty and pedigree are well known." Umbridge's simpering voice was even more grating in her obviously rising annoyance. Moreover, it was clear in the instant that she finished her statement, that she had made an error of judgment. In order to carry the day, she would have to convince those moderate members who had certain elitist tendencies. However, this selective ban that she now appeared to be proposing was now clearly exposed for the intolerance it espoused.

"You cannot have it both ways," Lady Longbottom said in a stern tone, her disapproval clear in the censure of her words. "You propose to disallow all 'creatures' from attending due to the danger of educating them, and now you propose that there can be exceptions. Are there exceptions to the safety of our children? Are there those who are creatures that mean us harm, yet will be eligible to attend due to some… exception? And who would determine just whom will be awarded an exception? Really, Madam Umbridge, you appear to have given this little thought. Perhaps you should go away and redraft your proposal—if you were to bar all _truly dangerous_ creatures, such as vampires or giants from Hogwarts, it may be something I could support. Of course, as we have never had such creatures attempt to infiltrate our education system in the past, your bill appears to be worth less than the parchment upon which it is printed. I would ask you to avoid wasting the Wizengamot's time."

The mottled red of Umbridge's face indicated the complete loss of her patience, but Dumbledore, deciding that it was time to end this farce of a proposal, cut in before she could reply.

"Come, Madam Umbridge, let us be honest with one another, don't you think?" he said, keeping a careful eye on her reaction to his words, along with the reaction of her superior. "I hardly think there is anyone in this chamber who does not understand the reason for your reticence in defining your words. Your strategy is to get your law passed and then leave the rest up to the Minister to further define your target group… or the particular person you target, is that not correct?"

"I have no idea what of you are speaking," the Undersecretary snapped.

"On the contrary, Madam, I believe you understand me perfectly," was Dumbledore's steely response. He glared at her for several moments before she was forced to look away. He smiled grimly in response.

"Your proposal is meaningless—the friendlier races, such as goblins and centaurs—are contemptuous of us and our brand of magic, and have no desire to attend Hogwarts, even should we extend the invitation. The darker groups, by contrast, have no interest in being educated by us, and would not fit into our society even if they did.

"And as for those others who I have no doubt you would brand as 'creatures,' lycanthropy is a well-documented disease which does not take away the humanity of a person. And as for _Veela_…"

No one in the room missed Dumbledore's emphasis, least of all Umbridge. "Yes, I know what the thrust of this… this travesty is," Dumbledore snapped, waving the parchment in the air before crushing it in his fist. All trace of the grandfatherly persona he often projected was now gone in favor of making an impression upon this stupid woman of just how formidable he could be when provoked.

"Make no mistake, esteemed members," he continued, addressing the entire chamber. "If this bill passes and Miss Delacour is not allowed to attend Hogwarts with her betrothed, then Mr. Potter may very well decide that he has had enough of us. I have heard from my French counterpart, and Madame Maxine has assured me that Harry Potter will be welcome at Beauxbatons any time he chooses. If you wish to be the means of forcing one of this nation's greatest heroes away from our shores, then I suggest you support this bill. If you are a right-thinking, rational person, then the choice is clear—Madam Umbridge's proposal is defamatory and discriminatory. It must be defeated.

"Now, I call for a vote on the member's private bill."

"Seconded!" exclaimed Amelia Bones.

Needless to say, the members of the Wizengamot, unwilling to appear to the Wizarding public as though they had driven Harry Potter from Britain, were cowed by Dumbledore's words. The motion was defeated soundly.

* * *

Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic of Magical Britain, sat behind his desk, at once amused and annoyed by the spectacle he was witnessing. The meeting of the Wizengamot had concluded over an hour earlier, and while his senior Undersecretary had arrived almost ten minutes previous, she had not stopped her ranting and raving the entire time she had been in his office. Even now she paced in front of his desk, her screeching grating on his nerves, the way she threw her hands up in the air to punctuate her words making him concerned her gyrations would cause her to suddenly take flight.

Such an absurd thought to have at such a time—he shook his head and smiled at the incongruousness of the thought paired with the situation. On the other hand, it was difficult _not_ having such thoughts about such an absurd woman. Unfortunately, his smile had not gone unnoticed by his companion.

"…and I cannot countenance such effrontery, such disregard for the standing and honor of those of us—"

Umbridge stopped and rounded on the Minister, her chubby face turning red in her anger. "Minister!" she demanded in her typical shrill voice, which was rendered even higher by her agitated state. "How can you smile at a time like this? These… _beasts_ are threatening our society, our way of life, and our very existence as a noble social order which must be the envy of all the world. Can you countenance this even for a moment?"

"Madam Undersecretary, I am certain you are well within your rights to be outraged by the defeat of your proposition in the Wizengamot." Actually, Fudge, not having much more than a rudimentary loyalty to anything other than his wallet, was indifferent to her schemes. What mattered was his ability to stay in power, and unless she went along with his plans, her ability to continue to forward her own agenda would also be seriously compromised—even the most fervent Pureblood fanatic, unlikely as it was that such a person could actually be elected to be the next Minister, would have a difficult time putting up with her. "However, you must consider the fact that it was by no means certain that your motion would pass, and given the state of the Wizengamot with Mr. Potter's acquittal last week, I dare say your defeat was inevitable."

Eyes narrowed, the Undersecretary stared at him with suspicion. "Do you mean to tell me that you _expected_ my motion to be defeated?" she demanded, indignation evident in her tone.

Apparently the expression on his face told her everything she needed to know, as her expression became flinty and she sniffed at him in disdain. "In that case, Minister, I wonder why you allowed me to make a fool of myself before the Wizengamot and even _encouraged_ me to do so."

_"You need no _encouragement_ from anyone to make yourself into the fool,"_ Fudge thought to himself.

Out loud he merely gestured her to a chair and leaned back in his, considering the proper response that would maintain her loyalty, while allowing him to continue to employ her as his own personal attack dog to be pointed directly at Dumbledore and his annoying little lackey.

"Madam Umbridge, I am most surprised at you," he finally said with a hint of reproof in his voice. "I should have thought that a woman of your political acumen would have read the situation and understood the thrust of my allowing you to present your legislation."

Her eyes softened at the flattery, even while she appeared to become more thoughtful. In truth, the woman had no political acumen whatsoever, and was merely guided by her prejudices and wishes for a society in which her definition of what was right and proper was allowed to rule over the rest.

"I can only assume that you misread what I had seen due to your righteous indignation," Fudge continued, taking great care to appeal to her vanity. "The situation in the Wizengamot was such that a motion which would even _appear_ to be even remotely detrimental to young Harry Potter had no chance at success. If you had perhaps been able to phrase your proposal in language which was a little more… reasonable, there may been a slight chance it its being carried, but the likelihood—now that Potter has been exonerated and publicly linked to the Veela—of it being passed was never great.

"In short, I allowed you to proceed as a distraction to Dumbledore. He and I are engaged in a power struggle for control of our government, as you well know, and if he were to be able to best me, I shudder to think what would happen to the society we all love. We would be overrun with Mudbloods and those of less than human ancestry, no doubt."

The woman was silent for several moments, though here glare did not lessen. "So you allowed me to be a… _diversion!_" she spat at length.

"I allowed you to _create_ a diversion," Fudge replied with aplomb. "There is a fine distinction. _You_ are not the diversion, but your proposal was. Dumbledore must now watch and be afraid of a modified version of your proposal being slipped past him, which will take his attention from other matters, including your coming installment at Hogwarts. You have not forgotten _that_ have you?"

"I have not," she responded slowly.

Fudge knew he had her—she had been basking in the fact that he had entrusted her with such an important design ever since he had first informed her of it.

"Good," Fudge said, allowing his approval to be conveyed by his voice. She truly was a useful tool in that she was manic in attacking whatever he pointed her at, and he could disavow her actions if she went too far, as she was well known to be a fanatic. Hopefully, in this instance she would be able to curb her natural tendencies and accomplish the complete takeover of the school.

"Always keep the goal in sight, Madam," he admonished. "Removing Hogwarts from the Headmaster's control is the first step in our plan to neuter him. Once we can prove he is unfit for _that_ role, it will be easier to unseat him from the Wizengamot and completely marginalize him. And without Dumbledore's support, Harry Potter will be completely without any power. Then with Dumbledore out of the way and Potter shunted to the side, we will be able to claim the moral high ground, quash any hint of this ludicrous story of the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and proceed with building our society into one which will be the envy of the world.

"But in order to achieve this goal, I will need to you adhere to the plan and gradually take over control of the school. Remove Dumbledore from his positions of power, Madam, then we will have the upper hand."

Umbridge's smile became truly unpleasant—Fudge thought she may have intended it to be predatory, but he could not imagine any short, plump predators clad entirely in pink. It was a most disturbing sight, and one which would undoubtedly take an excess of brandy to remove from his consciousness.

* * *

After another day of training with the demanding and critical Alastor Moody, Ron Weasley stumbled from the Floo, ignoring his brothers and sister who followed him, and trudged up the stairs to his room in the Burrow, thankful that another day had come to a close. It seemed that every part of him ached, and he was certain he had never worked this hard before in his life. Moody was trying to kill them—of that, he was convinced.

Still, though Ron was perhaps not the most motivated or studious sort of person, the training and the things he had learned filled him with a… pride, for want of a better term—pride in what he was doing. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned, after all, and his best friend was still the number one target. Ron would not sit back on the sidelines while Harry was threatened—he would stand and fight.

On the other front… The thought of Hermione brought a grimace to his face. He had not wavered for an instant in his determination to woo his brainy friend, and he was quickly coming to realize that Hermione was not the plain young woman he had always thought her to be—she was growing and filling in nicely, and was now a girl who he thought would command considerable attention as she continued to mature. Much as he regretted it, he knew that previously, his desire to be with her was something of a desire not to lose to Harry _again_, but now that had changed—she was perhaps not the statuesque beauty he had always noticed in the past, but she _was_ attractive in her own right. The fact that they fought constantly…

That, he firmly pushed from his mind. Their arguing had the earmarks of an old married couple's relationship—everyone said so. It was logical to assume—as his desired girlfriend was so fond of stating—that their relationship was ready to move to the more official one which he desired. If only it were that easy…

He was trying—he certainly was. He had attempted to tone down their disagreements, he tried to speak of her favorite things, and he endeavored to show her that he really cared. It did not seem to be working. She acted suspiciously around him, almost as though she thought he was trying to put one over on her, and moreover, his attempts to appear interested in the things which were important to her she seemed to see through with ease. If only she were interested in the things he was—he could talk about Quidditch and chess forever!

The door to his room banged open, and Ron sat up in surprise, as his two elder brothers entered the room.

"Hello Ronnikins, fancy meeting you here!" exclaimed one twin.

"It's a surprise to see our brother in his own room, Gred?"

"No, perhaps not, Forge. It just seemed like a good way to open the conversation."

The other twin nodded sagely. Ron, however, was not in the mood to deal with his ever-exuberant brothers.

"Do you two have a reason for bugging me?"

The twins shared a smirk. "Was that a hint of surliness I heard from our ungrateful brother?"

"I believe it was," replied the other. "And it's particularly rude of him, considering the fact that we came to help him, don't you think?"

"I concur, brother."

"Help me what?" Ron demanded.

"Well, Ron, it appears your attempts to woo the lovely Miss Granger have run into an impasse."

Ron attempted to react nonchalantly. "What are you guys talking about?"

Fred raised an eyebrow. "It appears that little Ronnie is trying to play stupid."

"An easy endeavor, to be sure."

Though Ron's anger was about to explode, George moved quickly to prevent him from erupting. "Ron, don't ever think that we're blind. The only one you are not fooling with your little puppy dog devotion is Moody, and I doubt he can tear his attention away from his paranoid delusions long enough to see your romantic fumblings."

"But have no fear, George and I have come to your rescue."

Though Ron was suspicious and angry at his brothers' teasing, he was desperate enough to grasp at just about anything. "What do you mean?"

The soft sound of something hitting his bed brought Ron's attention away from his brothers. A book? What good would that do?

"_That book_, Ronnie, is the ticket to your successful wooing of your lovely lady."

"Read the cover, Ron."

Looking down, Ron noted the wizarding illustration of a young woman holding the hand of a young man as they walked along a street, a look of utter devotion on her face. They were surrounded by delicate flowers and vines, which weaved and intertwined with each other, no doubt a subtle example of what was occurring between the couple in the picture. The title of the book was emblazoned upon the top in lurid red letters, _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches_.

Ron glanced back up at his brothers to see them smirking at him. "Just read the book, Ron. It tells you how you can mold yourself into boyfriend material."

"No guarantee that she will go out with you, but at least you'll have a fighting chance."

They smiled, identical evil grins, before they turned as one and left he room, leaving Ron alone with the book. Curiously, Ron opened it and began leafing through its pages. The irony of using a book to gain Hermione's affections was not lost on Ron, but as desperate as he was, he was willing to resort to just about anything. Hopefully, she would see he was serious about connecting with her.

* * *

"I know you are indignant about his, Jean-Sebastian, but I believe there is no response to make at this time."

Jean-Sebastian stopped his pacing and glared at Dumbledore. "A member of your government just attempted to brand my daughters as _creatures_, and all you can say is that I should let the insult slide? At the very least I should be giving your Minister a stinging set-down, if not pulling Fleur—_and_ Harry—from Hogwarts immediately."

Dumbledore smiled faintly. "I understand your need to protect your daughter. However, I believe it would be absolutely pointless to protest directly to the Minister. It would only give him possible ammunition to demand that you are removed from your post."

"As though my Minister would listen to him," Jean-Sebastian replied with a derisive snort. "Alain's opinion of Fudge is perhaps worse than my own."

"That may be," Dumbledore agreed pleasantly. "However, the situation has been dealt with. Even if I did not remind the Wizengamot of the consequences of barring your daughter from Hogwarts, I do not think that Fudge had anywhere close to the number of necessary votes to pass the law. No, this was nothing more than a diversionary tactic, and a rather obvious one at that."

Jean-Sebastian did not like what Dumbledore was suggesting, but he was conscious of the fact that nothing could be gained by storming into the British Minister's office and threatening him within an inch of his life. Much as he would like to do exactly that…

Flinging himself into a chair, Jean-Sebastian considered his companion, even as he worked to calm his inflamed emotions.

"What do you suggest then?"

A shrug was his response, prompting Jean-Sebastian to narrow his eyes.

"You do not need to take make that face, Jean-Sebastian," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "At this point, we can do nothing but wait for Fudge to make his move. I do not doubt that it will be something aimed at discrediting me—you and your family enjoy diplomatic immunity, after all, and I do not think he will be foolish enough to attack you directly."

The man was right—much though Jean-Sebastian wished he was not. But that did not change the fact that he would not allow the man to persecute his family, a family which now included Harry.

"I will not allow your government to target my family, Dumbledore—officially or unofficially. If Fudge attempts to make it difficult for Fleur, I _will_ leave the country and not look back."

"I understand," Dumbledore affirmed. "However, I would ask you to trust us. My staff and I will ensure Fleur's safety and wellbeing at Hogwarts, and I will be vigilant in the Wizengamot, though I doubt that Fudge will try again so soon."

It was the best he was going to get at the moment, Jean-Sebastian reflected. He knew what he was getting into when he agreed to Sirius' plan to help Harry, and he had no choice but to ride out the storm. It did not change the fact that he had not expected such open opposition from the Minister himself. Perhaps the Minister was something they need to change…

"I will leave it in your hands, Dumbledore," he finally responded. "But I think it is high time we speak of your Minister. He has done nothing about Voldemort's return and I believe we should begin planning for his ultimate removal."

"I agree. It will become the main focus of the Order, along with the ongoing effort against Voldemort."

The two men spoke deep into the night, speaking, planning, discarding, and ultimately agreeing on nothing, but both feeling that they had begun to approach a method for accomplishing their goal. Jean-Sebastian was still concerned about his children, but he knew that they would be protected at Hogwarts. He would need to do his part, from attempting to convince the English government to take the threat of Voldemort seriously, to acting as a liaison to his own government. He did not for a moment believe that the Voldemort problem was merely a British one.

* * *

_Updated 05/09/2013  
_


	9. Chapter 8 – A Course is Set

**Chapter 8 – A Course is Set**

It was with a high level of excitement that Harry stepped into the Floo Connection to return to Grimmauld Place that Saturday for his first official meeting of the Order of the Phoenix.

The meeting of the Order which had occurred when he had previously stayed at Grimmauld had allowed him a glimpse of the Order's goals, and of course the twins' Extendable Ears had allowed them to eavesdrop a certain extent. But now he was to be considered a part of the Order—or, at least, a prospective part. For a young man such as Harry, who had grown up in a miserable environment, it was a large step—and a particularly welcome one. He had never had the opportunity to determine the direction in which he wished his life to proceed, and though he supposed young people normally did as their parents directed, at least most of them would have had a little more autonomy than he had ever enjoyed.

The thought of his new betrothal was an example of his discontent and inability to choose the course of his own life. He understood Sirius' reasons, and he understood the way these things often worked in the extremely old-fashioned society in which the wizarding world existed. It still did not make it any easier to have that choice completely torn away, regardless of the good intentions or potential advantages the match would bring. His only comfort was that it had taken no time at all to conclude that Fleur was a fine young woman, to be esteemed for who she was rather than _what_ she was. Even so, he was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that he was now tied to her for life.

This meeting was, so far as he could remember, the first time in which he was to be included and his opinion sought. It was heady for a young man who was anxious and determined to be seen as a young man rather than to be referred to as "the boy," as his uncle had always called him.

He stumbled only slightly upon exiting the Floo—a fact which he noted with some pride, not to mention a certain relief—and was greeted by his friends. Hermione, Fleur, and the younger Weasley siblings were to be included in the meeting as well. Neville and Luna, who were of age with Harry and engaged in the training, were excluded for the time being, not only due to their lack of knowledge about the Order in the first place, but also because Dumbledore was uncertain whether their guardians would approve of their inclusion. Depending upon their level of skill and whether they ultimately were deemed trustworthy—which Harry felt certain they were—he intended to speak with Dumbledore when the time was right about their inclusion.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed as soon as he appeared. He found himself immediately engulfed in one of her trademark hugs, which, he reflected, were very warm and comforting, much like Hermione herself.

When the young brunette witch released him, he grinned at her before turning to greet the Weasleys, noting the congenial smile on Ginny's face, the twins' irrepressible grins, and Ron's own broad smile. By then, Apolline, Jean-Sebastian, Fleur, and Sirius—who had insisted on attending—had emerged from the Floo. The adults smiled at the youngsters before making their way from the room, leaving Fleur and her betrothed in the care of the others.

The group engaged in small talk for a few moments, most of the conversation seeming to center around what had happened since they had all been together last—as though they had not seen one another at Moody's training session only the day before. Unfortunately for Harry, the twins made certain to exact their pound of flesh, teasing him about being cooped up in that great big mansion with only his incredibly gorgeous fiancée for company. Harry bore it as best he could and found, to his delight, that the most effective method of deterring them from their fun was to tease them back about their own inability to find themselves a "gorgeous witch" of their own. Needless to say, the banter was friendly and playful, and Fleur's judicious use of her allure at the right moment—thereby turning the young men into gibbering imbeciles—helped Harry get the better of the exchange.

Their time together was interrupted by Sirius, who poked his head into the room after several minutes had passed. "Showtime, everyone!" was his ebullient declaration.

Eagerly, the seven young people traded glances, and as one, they moved from the room. The house at Grimmauld was large and dark, but a few rooms had been made almost habitable by their efforts at cleaning it earlier that month. They were led to one of those rooms. It was a large sitting room, and it had been cleared of all the old, ghoulish furniture, which had been replaced with a number of chairs and a small, portable lectern in one of the corners. The order members all appeared to be there, and though Harry was familiar with some—such as his former DADA professor Remus Lupin—there were a great many faces which he did not recognize.

They were directed toward a group of chairs nearest the lectern and took their seats gingerly, an amused Harry noting that his friends were all as excited and nervous as he himself felt. Unfortunately, the first test of their fortitude was made almost before they were able to seat themselves.

"Ron, what are you and your friends doing here?" Mrs. Weasley demanded, rising to her feet and stalking to the front of the room until she stood in front of the teenagers, her hands on her hips, and her eyes filled with a fiery indignation.

Ron was nonplused by his mother's displeasure—he had seen her unhappy enough times to know when his mother was in danger of experiencing a serious eruption.

Seeing his friend in this state, Harry answered for him. "We were invited, Mrs. Weasley."

Though her eyes narrowed for a moment, Mrs. Weasley's expression soon softened, and she smiled. Unfortunately, her smile seemed to be full of condescension, and it immediately annoyed Harry.

"Harry, dear, there must have been some mistake," Mrs. Weasley answered. "This is a meeting of the Order, not some lark for school children. You are all too young to be here. Now run along and keep each other company while we discuss what is to be done. We will talk about your behavior after the meeting."

"Ah, but they _were_ invited," interjected Jean-Sebastian. A quick glance by Harry at his new guardian revealed that Jean-Sebastian still sat in his seat, seemingly at ease, but Harry, who had started to get to know the man, could tell his seriousness in the intensity of his gaze, and the tone of his voice.

"Your headmaster and I discussed the matter at some length and agreed that the young people are ready for the burden, particularly with the fact that some of them have faced your dark lord more than once."

"They are too young," Mrs. Weasley insisted. "They should not have to bear the burden that is rightfully ours as their guardians."

"Harry and his friends appear to have been targeted specifically by Voldemort," Jean-Sebastian countered. "As a result, they will be on the front lines of this fight before long. Besides, Harry himself has faced—and triumphed—over Voldemort more than once since he returned to your world, and as such, he deserves to know what is happening. How many times have you faced the Dark Lord?"

Mrs. Weasley's eyes were mere slits by now, her displeasure evident for the entire room to see. Jean-Sebastian, however, affected not to notice this, as he continued to regard her with a slightly less than friendly expression.

"My wife and I," he said, gesturing to Apolline, "have decided to attend this meeting in order to determine whether we will support your order. The safety of my family is paramount, as I am certain is the case with yours as well. Thus far, I have been impressed with your people and your methods, but I can tell you that your attitude is not helping matters."

A loud sniff of disdain met his declaration, but Mrs. Weasley, though she obviously would have preferred to protest further, had sensed she would not be able to carry the point.

"I am sure I do not know how you raise your children in France, but here we do not allow our children to face danger when it is our duty to protect them."

She fixed her stare on the children. "Harry, I cannot force you to leave because of your _guardian_," she spat the word with some disdain and a glare at the French ambassador, "but my own children will not attend. Boys, Ginny, Hermione, you will leave now and return to your rooms. I will meet you upstairs later to discuss your defiance."

"In France, we allow our children to grow and give them more responsibilities as they do so in order for them to gain experience, Mrs. Weasley," Jean-Sebastian snapped, all pretense toward friendliness now gone.

"Mrs. Weasley, you are not my guardian," Hermione quietly said. "I will stay with Harry."

Mrs. Weasley had just rounded on the girl when her husband stepped forward and took her by the arm, leading her back to her chair. "Dumbledore and Jean-Sebastian spoke to me about the children's inclusion, Molly, and I agreed. Now, let's sit down and wait for the headmaster."

"Indeed, we did speak of it, Molly," the voice of Dumbledore intoned as he entered the room. "Harry and his friends have shown remarkable maturity in meeting the challenges they have come up against, and I believe that they will bring a fresh perspective to our deliberations.

"Now, if everyone is ready," he continued, striding up to the lectern, "I believe we should call this meeting to order."

The room quieted, and the meeting began, much to Harry's relief. He had not expected Mrs. Weasley's objections, though he likely should have. He knew she was a good woman who had the best of intentions and a genuine care for his—and the others'—welfare, but she also had certain opinions and was very strong-willed. That did not stop her from seeming overbearing at times, and he found he did occasionally resent her tendency to think she knew best. However, he could not overlook the welcome she had always given him and the fact that she had often treated him as one of her own. He did not take pleasure in her set-down, but he was glad his friends had all been able to stay for the meeting.

The meeting turned out to be more of a general planning session than the council of war Harry had been imagining in his mind. The first topic of discussion was security, which for obvious reasons was a primary concern. Grimmauld Place, which was under a Fidelius Charm, was as safe as magic could make it, as long as the secret keeper kept it from the enemy. As Dumbledore himself was the secret keeper, there was virtually no possibility of their security being breached. However, the Burrow, the various members' residences, and the Granger home were all considered to be softer targets which the enemy could exploit. There was some discussion about the Ambassador's Mansion, but as the residence was under heavy warding of its own—and as there were several French Aurors present—it was deemed to be safe enough for the present. In addition to this, there was a guarded Floo Connection to the French Floo Network, which allowed an escape route should the defenses be overwhelmed.

As for the other locations, it was decided that Bill Weasley—being very familiar with warding schemes due to his employment as a Gringotts curse breaker—would be drafted into providing improved wards at all order member locations, including Hermione's parents' house. Mad-Eye Moody would assist him in this endeavor. In addition, all members and their families would carry emergency Portkeys to allow them a quick escape should a situation become untenable.

From there, the discussion moved to the subject of the Ministry and Fudge's likely response to his defeat in Harry's trial. A tall, dark-skinned man—who was introduced as Kingsley Shacklebolt—stood to give his report of the current state in the Ministry.

"Thus far, Minister Fudge has done nothing to increase the Auror budget, and the hiring of new Aurors is proceeding as it ever was—in other words, there is no budget for hiring any additional help to combat the threat of You-Know-Who. The official policy within the Ministry is that Harry is lying and trying to stir up trouble. Minister Fudge has authorized a press release for tomorrow which is aimed at discrediting Harry and reassuring the public that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has not returned and that we are all safe."

"Is he mad?" a woman from the back row demanded.

"No, he's a politician," Sirius replied with a cynical laugh. "Fudge only cares about his public image and the amount of money in his pocket, and war is bad for business. By denying You-Know-Who's return, he can continue to keep the money rolling into his vault."

"Unfortunately, that's a pessimistic, but accurate statement, Sirius," Dumbledore confirmed. "In spite of my advice, Minister Fudge refuses to listen and will take no action which will appear to confirm the Voldemort's return in any way. Nor will he authorize any investigation into Harry's claims. It is clear he has chosen to hide his head in the sand and will do nothing unless forced.

"The Wizengamot is fractured, with few of the factions agreeing on any matter, and certainly not enough to come to a consensus. I have had private conversations with various Wizengamot members over the past few days and have determined that I do not have the votes to have Fudge removed from office. Therefore, I believe the burden of opposing Voldemort will fall to the order until we can influence some change in leadership."

The room fell silent as the members absorbed that piece of news. It was not unexpected—Fudge had made his position very clear, after all—but to have it confirmed was certainly not welcome in any way.

"For now, as Voldemort must gain his strength and marshal his forces, our missions will likely be confined to intelligence gathering, but the longer the Ministry goes without making any sort of preparations, the less tenable our situation will be. We must come up with some way to force the Ministry to take the threat seriously, as I have no doubt that we do not have the resources to prosecute a war against Voldemort ourselves."

"It's possible that we may be able to get Madam Bones to support a more active response to the Death Eaters," Shacklebolt suggested. "She's pragmatic, no nonsense, and just a little disgusted with Fudge in general."

"That is an option," Mr. Weasley said with a hint of wariness. "But she would have to be careful to fly her broom close to the ground. If Fudge gets wind of what she is doing, he may even have her replaced, and to do that now with You-Know-Who on the rise would be disastrous."

"I can speak with Madam Bones," said Dumbledore. "She will understand the need to keep her actions quiet, and I have every confidence in her ability to withstand Death Eater attacks for the time being. Does anyone have anything else to bring up?"

"Sir?" Harry asked a little diffidently. He felt he had something to share, but to do so under the eyes of the entire gathering during his first meeting was a little intimidating.

"Yes, Harry?" Dumbledore asked kindly.

"I was thinking, sir—everything I've seen of the Minister says that he's not going to admit he was wrong unless he's forced into it. I don't know how, but he'd almost have to see Voldemort for himself before he'd believe it. Is there some way we can force a confrontation?"

Dumbledore was silent for several moments, and speculative murmurs sprung up throughout the room. Harry glanced to Hermione by his side, noting that she was smiling at him in approval. He returned the grin and turned his attention back to the headmaster.

"At present, I doubt Voldemort can be lured from his lair," Dumbledore said, appearing deep in thought. "However, that doesn't mean that your idea does not have merit. There may be an opportunity at some point, and if such does present itself, we will need to be ready to seize it. Very good thinking, Harry."

Flushing at the praise, Harry nodded his thanks and settled in for the rest of the meeting. The rest of the time passed as they discussed the Order's strategy and the different assignments which Dumbledore gave to members of the group. For now, it appeared that they were very much waiting to see what the enemy would do, while attempting to counter whatever the Death Eaters threw at them. It was perhaps not the ideal position, but it was the best they had for the present.

The meeting broke up soon after that, and though there was much uncertainty over Voldemort's plans and the state of the Ministry, Harry was convinced that someone was doing what was possible to mitigate the danger. He was especially pleased that the Order was taking steps to protect its members—especially the Grangers, who would have no wards to protect them whatsoever. He knew how devastated Hermione would be if she lost her parents…

Though she said not a word, Mrs. Weasley's disdainful glance at the children as she left the room spoke volumes. Harry almost sighed—she clung to her beliefs tenaciously, and there was precious little he could do to change them. He decided not to be concerned, however; he was certain she would eventually come around. At the very least, he did not live at Grimmauld any longer, so he would be able to avoid her if she was unpleasant.

The best part of the night, in Harry's opinion, was the discussion between the headmaster and Jean-Sebastian before they returned to the Ambassador's Mansion. One of his greatest fears had been that his guardian would not agree with the Order's goals and would strike out on his own, putting Harry in a difficult position. Their conversation ended any chance of that happening.

"Well, Jean-Sebastian, I hope that this meeting calmed your fears and that you will continue to work with us."

Jean-Sebastian smiled at Dumbledore and indicated his acquiescence with a slight bow. "It has. Anything you need from me will be provided."

"Very well, then."

Dumbledore excused himself to go, leaving the rest of the occupants of the room to mill about and speak to one another about the meeting they had just left. Harry particularly enjoyed speaking a few moments with his friends. Things were looking up for him, and he was looking forward to continuing to get to know his new family better.

* * *

In another part of the old house, Molly Weasley fumed about the situation and the loss of all her plans. This latest straw—having that awful Mr. Delacour set her down in front of the children—was just another reason for her to dislike him. The children were too young—they needed to step back and allow the adults to take care of them, as was their right and duty.

What Molly did not acknowledge, even to herself, was her fear. She had not escaped the first war unscathed—few had—and though she would largely not acknowledge it even to herself, she was afraid of once again going through the heartbreak of losing another loved one to that damned dark lord. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been directly responsible for the deaths of her twin brothers, and the ache she felt at their loss, though dulled with time, was still keenly felt. She wanted to keep the children safe at all costs, and it was very difficult to admit that they were growing up and could take care of themselves.

That Harry, a young man of whom she was genuinely fond, was now in a better home situation was something to be glad about, as personally distasteful as she found the Delacours. He was closemouthed about his experiences during his childhood, but she suspected that the Muggles he had lived with were, at the very least, apathetic toward him, not caring for him in the manner that they should have.

It still rankled, however, that if he should leave their care, then he would not be put in _hers_. She was far better known to the boy than the Delacours and was able to provide a far healthier environment for his upbringing than they could, she was certain. And that betrothal…

The mere thought of the fact that Harry was betrothed filled Molly with indignation, especially since it was to that hussy! Harry was perfect for Ginny! He had saved her in the chamber, for Merlin's sake—it bespoke to his noble and self-sacrificing nature, which was all Molly wanted for her only daughter, and in her mind, it tied them together with an unbreakable bond. Of course, it would not hurt that the boy's social and financial situation could only bolster that of the Weasleys'—Harry truly did not completely understand the stature he could command in their world, not only due to his status as the Boy-Who-Lived, but also because of the fact that the Potters had a very old name and had always been influential. Their substantial wealth did not hurt matters either.

But Harry's stature and birthright were secondary to all other concerns. Ginny was her baby, and since Ginny had been a little girl, she had idolized the Boy-Who-Lived and fantasized about marrying him. And since that was what Ginny wanted, Molly had been determined that she would help her only daughter to achieve that goal, whatever it took. This contract with the French witch all but put that notion to rest, unless Ginny were to consider a multiple marriage with the young man.

She continued to chew upon the issue, worrying at it from every side she could think of, but nothing presented itself. No matter how she approached the situation in her mind, there was nothing she could do. Harry Potter was, for all intents and purposes, engaged to Fleur Delacour, and there was nothing to be done about it.

"Come to bed, Molly," the voice of her husband startled her from her thoughts. She glanced around, and noting the time on the clock, she wondered at how long she had stewed, thinking about her daughter and the boy whom she considered as good as a son.

She swiftly prepared herself for sleep and joined her husband in their bed, lifting the blankets to her chin while letting out a long sigh of frustration. Arthur, who knew her better than anyone else, regarded her in silence before breaking it with a gentle remonstrance.

"Molly, I understand you are not happy about this betrothal business, but I believe it is truly in Harry's best interests at this point."

"How can you say that?" Molly demanded. "How can that… that… _girl_ be good for Harry, who is the gentlest, nicest boy I have ever met? We know nothing about her, Arthur, and being a Veela, she is almost certainly a scarlet woman!"

"You know no such thing," Arthur reprimanded. "Everything I've seen of her suggests that she is quiet and pleasant. There is no reason to vilify her."

Arthur regarded her for a moment, his eyes intent, and Molly was reminded of the fact that though her husband often appeared to be oblivious and intent upon his eccentric interests, he was an intelligent man, and not entirely blind to what was occurring around him.

"Now, what is this all about, Molly?" he asked. His tone, while gentle and affectionate, was also commanding—he was not about to let this go without a fight.

"Arthur, you know Ginny has always idolized Harry. She is very upset about this betrothal, and I am upset for her—she and Harry would be perfect together if not for these Delacours interfering."

"Are you forgetting Sirius, love? He was the instigator of this in the first place."

"Yes, Sirius had a hand in it, and though I do not like it, I am well aware of the fact that he is only trying to do his best for Harry. He should have consulted us—what can an unmarried man of his age, who has spent the last decade of his life in prison, know about raising a young boy?"

Arthur sighed and snuggled closer into his wife, a movement which she returned, feeling somewhat comforted by his presence.

"Molly, Ginny has never idolized Harry—she idolized the Boy-Who-Lived. It is only recently that she has begun to see him for himself rather than for his fame.

"And if I may be so bold, I'd like to point out that she appears to be handling this better than you are."

"But, Arthur—"

"No, Molly," Arthur interrupted, using a firm tone he rarely used with her. "You need to step back and allow the children to live their lives. If Ginny is meant to be with Harry, I do not doubt that she will still end up with him—he is a prime candidate for a multiple marriage, after all.

"And besides, I think you're missing the reaction of another who is much closer to Harry than Ginny has ever been."

Molly turned her puzzled gaze on her husband. "Pardon me?"

Arthur chuckled quietly. "You've been so focused on Ginny that I'm not surprised you missed it. Though she's handled it very well, I believe that Hermione has been just as upset with the betrothal as Ginny—if not more so."

"Hermione?" Molly demanded.

"Yes, Molly. I think our little resident bookworm has fancied Harry for some time now. It's hardly surprising, if you think about it—they are practically inseparable."

Was it true? How could she have missed such a thing? Unless, of course, her normally somewhat distracted husband was completely mistaken. But if he was _not _mistaken, then what about…

"But Arthur, what about Ronnie?"

"Yes, I've noticed Ron's infatuation with Hermione, too," Arthur confirmed with a smile.

"Arthur, Ron would be so disappointed to learn that Hermione has feelings for Harry. I can't bear to have two children upset."

"You have no choice, Molly," replied Arthur firmly. "They have their own choices and must live their own lives. Besides, despite Ron's feelings, I truly doubt that he and Hermione could cease their frequent disagreements long enough to come to an understanding of such significance. I'm afraid they are not well suited to one another at all."

It was only the truth, Molly had to admit. Much as she loved all of her children, she was not blind to Ron's faults, and she knew that a driven and intelligent young woman such as Hermione—who shared virtually no common interests with him—would not likely develop feelings for Ron under such circumstances. Ron _had_ undoubtedly improved over the years—and she could only admit the influence that Hermione and Harry had exerted had much to do with it—but he still had a certain amount of growing to do.

"Now, Molly, I must have your word on this—you must not interfere. The children must be free to live their own lives with whomever they wish. Leave them alone, my dear—I have no doubt they will work it out themselves."

Molly murmured her agreement, which seemed to satisfy her husband, and within minutes, he was snoring softly. In the back of her mind, however, she could not help but worry the situation like a dog with a bone. There must be _something_ she could do to save her daughter from heartache. She would have to continue to think on it.

* * *

The next week after the Order meeting saw a slight change in the training program. While Moody continued to drill them in stances, avoiding curses, and the proper way to move about a battlefield, he also began to move them toward learning more about curses and hexes which they would use in a duel. He was very blunt with them, telling them all he was covering months of training in the period of a few days. However, it was necessary, for, as he told them, they did not have months and months to prepare. Once they arrived at school, they would need to continue to practice what they had learned, and they could call on the headmaster (when he was available) or Professor Flitwick (who had been considered a master duelist in his youth). Next year, he told them, he would continue on with their training in the summer.

The other circumstance which changed was the fact that from Monday of that week, the entire group Flooed to the manor with their trunks, as it had been decided that they would stay the entire week there rather than returning after their sessions were complete. It had been a joint idea put forth by Fleur and Harry. It afforded them more time with their friends and helped build their level of camaraderie. Harry particularly was happy to have his friends there for longer, and Fleur, though she was still getting to know Harry's friends, welcomed the opportunity to do so more quickly.

In fact, by the end of the first week, Hermione had all but moved into the manor and away from Grimmauld Place. Her parents had visited the Delacours the day after the Order meeting—with Hermione joining them, of course—and had come to stay the final weekend of the summer as well, meaning Hermione stayed for that weekend as well.

In the Grangers, Harry found a couple who genuinely cared about their daughter's wellbeing and happiness, and as a consequence, they had accepted wholeheartedly her status as a witch, even though it had seriously curbed the time they were able to spend with their daughter. They took to Harry immediately as Hermione's closest friend, and it was not long before he was calling them by name—William and Elizabeth.

Of course, this arrangement was also the cause of a certain amount of discontent in their group as well. Specifically, the Weasley children, who were there at their mother's rather grudging acceptance, were absolutely refused when they applied to their parents to stay the last weekend of the summer with the Delacours as well. It was understood by all that although the given reason for Mrs. Weasley's refusal was the fact that she would not see her children again until Christmas, a rather large consideration was the fact that she truly did not like the Delacours and would prefer her children spent as little time with them as possible. She was barely tolerant of her children training with "those foreign people" at all.

The twins took this decision rather stoically—most of the rest of the group were younger than they were, after all, and they decided they could plot their pranks from Grimmauld place more effectively anyway. Ginny, though disappointed that she was not to spend more time with her friends—including Harry, who she was coming to know on a more personal basis—was also philosophical about it. She would be in their company for the next several months, and she was happy to spend some more time with her parents.

The true difficulty was Ron. He was decidedly unhappy that his request had been denied and had complained loud and long on the matter. His mother was not to be moved, however, and Ron spent the entire weekend at Grimmauld Place seething, angry over the loss of his time with Hermione and imagining everything that Harry might be getting up to with her.

For Hermione's part, she was rather suspicious of Ron. He had seemingly changed overnight, and though the change could be said to be for the better, there almost seemed to be a forced quality to it. He was much more considerate of her feelings, for instance, and he rarely provoked a disagreement with her. There had been times, however, when he had appeared to be on the verge of an explosion and had curbed his natural tendency just in time. The rest of the time, he paid a lot of attention to her, flattering her with comments and giving her awkward little gifts. It was almost like he had someone coaching him and was now set on making a move upon her. It was most disconcerting to the young woman who had rarely attracted such attention in the past, but on the other hand, it also felt good to have someone behave in such a way toward her. Not that she was in danger of falling to his charms—she was firmly of the opinion that they would do badly together as a couple.

As for the various relationships between the disparate members of the group, while they appeared to get along well, there were certain undercurrents that passed between them which often appeared only to the discerning eye. Neville and Luna seemed somewhat blind to the underlying tensions between certain other members of the group, but that was hardly surprising, given the fact that everyone else was much more familiar with each other than they were, with the possible exception of Fleur.

Fleur's initial relationship with Ginny was characterized by wariness, though they had warmed to each other significantly by the end of the first week. For those who were perceptive enough, it was clear that their initial difficulties were based almost solely upon Ginny's all-consuming jealousy of the older witch. However, this jealousy was quickly eased because Fleur made the effort to get to know Ginny, and Ginny, for her part, discovered that Fleur was a pleasant and intelligent witch. She soon realized that Fleur had been forced into this as much as Harry had—once she had realized and accepted that fact, it was much easier to get to know the French witch without any rancor straining their relationship.

Between Hermione and Fleur, a fast friendship had formed, and the two were much in each other's confidence early on in their relationship. They were different in some respects, but they had many similarities as well, the least of which was not the fact that they had both been loners to a certain extent in their younger years, Fleur due to her heritage, and Hermione due to her intelligence. And as they were both interested in Harry's happiness, they found that they had much common ground upon which to base a friendship.

Finally, a certain amount of friction had also sprung up between Harry and Ron, though Harry was not completely certain the cause for this. He had known that Ron was not happy to have had to stay at Grimmauld Place the Sunday Hermione had come to visit with her parents, but what that had to do with him, he could not be certain. Ron, however, was not about to let it lie, and Harry would soon find out what was bothering his friend.

* * *

Ron was frustrated. He had never been exactly a paragon of patience (even Ron could admit he was not blessed with _that_ particular virtue), and the situation with Hermione was wearing on him.

Perhaps amazingly, for one who was not normally particularly fond of books, Ron had taken the one that the twins had given him and read through it in no time. The book had been filled with such helpful tips and instructions, and he had been inordinately pleased with himself—surely with this aid, he could go about wooing his closest female friend!

But unfortunately, it had not happened that way. Though Ron had made good use of the book, following its instructions to the letter, something appeared to be missing. Hermione seemed as though she was warming to him, and she appeared to be appreciative of the effort he was making to show her how he felt, but beyond that, she seemed unaffected. It was driving Ron barmy—he was stuck, and he did not know what he should do.

In addition, Harry's relationship with Hermione looked as though it was stronger than ever—they laughed and joked together, and both appeared to be drawing closer than ever to the Veela, though Ron himself was still rather tongue-tied around the girl. This was _not_ the way things were supposed to go.

In his mind's eye, Ron could only imagine what Harry and Hermione were getting up to when he was not around. How could Harry do this to him? He already had a beautiful Veela at his beck and call—why could Harry not leave Hermione for him?

He was not about to stand for it, and he resolved to confront Harry on the situation immediately.

His chance came on the Tuesday of that week. The training group had just been dismissed by Moody, and the other participants had already left, and though Ron would have liked to get to dinner, which he was certain had already been set out for them, he knew there was likely no better time to confront his friend.

"Harry, I'd like to talk to you for a moment," Ron said a little hesitantly. Harry _was_ a good friend, after all, and he did not wish to anger him—their relationship had already taken a bit of a beating due to Ron's behavior over the Triwizard (Ron's fault, he was able to admit to himself), and Ron did not wish for them to become further estranged. But he could not let Harry snap up _all_ the good witches!

"Sure, Ron," Harry replied from the bench where he was lacing his shoes. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to talk to you about Hermione."

Harry looked up at him, confused. "Hermione? What about her?"

"Well… I was kind of wondering…"

As Ron stammered, trying to find the words to ask his question, Harry's countenance became even more confused.

"What is it, Ron?"

"What is your relationship with her?" Ron finally blurted out, inwardly wincing at just how inelegant his sudden question sounded.

"My relationship?" Harry echoed uncertainly. "I'm not certain what you are referring to, Ron. I believe my relationship with Hermione is the same as it's ever been—she's my friend, and I'm grateful to her for believing in me, for always sticking up for me."

"That's not what you told her last week!" snapped Ron. "You told her that she was your _best friend!_ Just what did you mean by that?"

Harry's look became speculative and more than a little darker. He glared at Ron, making Ron feel even more uncomfortable. But he would not give in—he had to know what Harry's intentions toward Hermione were!

"I wasn't aware that you were in the habit of eavesdropping on private conversations."

"Just answer the question, Harry!"

"Fine," said Harry, rising to his feet. "Hermione _is_ my _best friend!_"

Ron's jaw dropped, and he peered at Harry in disbelief. "But Harry, I'm your best friend! We've been through everything together—best mates and all—how can you say that Hermione—a girl!—is closer than we are?"

"Does the term 'Tri-Wizard Tournament' mean anything to you, Ron?" was Harry's sarcastic reply.

Blushing crimson, Ron hung his head in shame—perhaps Harry was right. Ron had not behaved well during that whole debacle, though he had assumed that Harry had forgiven him.

"Listen, Ron," Harry continued in a more conciliatory tone, "I don't hold that against you, but since you asked, I will tell you. Hermione never doubted me, while you would not talk to me for over a month, even though I told you all along I wanted nothing to do with the tournament and didn't enter my name into it.

"To be honest with you, Ron, that's not the only time."

Startled, Ron looked up at Harry, noting the expression of seriousness on his face.

"You've been a bit of a flake at times, not only to me, but also to Hermione. I consider you a friend, Ron—a best friend even—and I know that no matter how you flake out, you'll always come to your senses sooner or later. But I must admit that waiting for you to get over it can be annoying.

"That is why Hermione is my best friend. She's never put me through that. Hell, the only time I've ever fought with her at all was when she turned my Firebolt in to McGonagall in the third year, and even then, she did it _for me_, because she was scared that I would get hurt."

Embarrassed, Ron considered Harry's words and decided they were completely correct. There had been times when he had been jealous of Harry or had treated him badly, and he knew that if he wanted to maintain their friendship, he would have to improve his behavior.

"I'll try to do better, Harry," he mumbled, hoping his friend would accept that.

"I know, Ron," replied Harry with a grin. "I know you try. I just hope you get over your jealousy some time. You don't seem to realize it, but it's not always fun and games being Harry Potter."

Ron was aware of this—perhaps subconsciously—but Harry seemed to get the short end of the stick more than most. Still, this was something to be considered at another time. For now, Harry still had not given him an answer for exactly how he viewed Hermione, and Ron was not about to let him go until he had some idea of what he was up against.

"But what about Hermione?" Ron pressed. "I know she's a friend, but what do you… _think_ of her?"

A true smile came over Harry's face, and he chuckled with pure amusement. "So _that's_ what this is all about. You think I fancy Hermione?"

"Don't you?" Ron challenged.

"Doesn't matter, now does it?" Harry asked, completely solemn. "Ron, I am _bound_ by a marriage contract with Fleur. Hermione…"

His sudden pause when speaking of the young witch caused Ron to peer at him with heightened suspicion. It appeared very much the case that Harry _did_ have feelings of some sort for Hermione. Ron was not happy with the confirmation.

"Even if I _do_ have feelings for Hermione, I can hardly act on them because of my contract with Fleur, now can I? Do you think I would betray either Fleur or Hermione that way—or that Hermione would even accept such an arrangement? What are you thinking, Ron?"

It was all the confirmation Ron needed. He knew that just because Harry had a betrothal contract with Fleur, he could still woo Hermione due to his status and ability to marry more than one witch. But if Harry did not know that, then Ron would not be the one to illuminate him on the subject. He knew Harry would find out about it some time, but Ron hoped that by the time he did, Ron would already have secured Hermione's affections.

"I'm sorry, Harry—you're right," was all Ron said. "It's just… I _like_ Hermione, you know?"

"I suspected," Harry admitted. "Have you told her?"

"I'm working on it."

"I suggest you do."

Ron peered at his friend, wondering just how sincere he was being—after all, Ron was convinced that Harry also had feelings for Hermione, whether he had admitted it to himself or not. But Harry was too noble to do what Ron had suggested, and Ron—belatedly—realized that fact. He would have to begin repairing his relationship with his friend in earnest.

"Listen, Harry, I just got a bit jealous, what with your close relationship with her. I want to get together with her, you know?"

"I do, Ron, but I suggest you speak with her about it. Don't pull me into this—I already have Fleur to worry about, and getting to know her is all I can handle right now."

"Sure, Harry," said Ron. Then he slapped his friend on the back. "Let's get to dinner—I'm starving!"

Harry grinned, and they left the room. For Ron, he was content with the outcome of the discussion. With Harry admitting himself that he had no designs on Hermione, Ron doubted there would be anyone else even in the running. Things were looking up!

* * *

_Updated 05/11/2013_


	10. Chapter 9 – Choices

**Chapter 9 – Choices**

There was perhaps no race of being upon the earth as misunderstood as the race of Veela.

Many considered them to be little more than creatures—on the same level as giants or dragons, and though they resembled humans more closely than most other races, it was a common opinion that they needed to be regulated, like most other non-human races were. Nothing could be further from the truth. Veela were physiologically identical to any "normal" human beings—they simply had special and very specific abilities which set them apart from the rest of the human race.

For one, Veela had an alternate form into which they could change—at moments of great stress or fear when young, though control was achieved as the Veela matured. They were creatures of fire, having an affinity for all types of fire magic, and able to hurl destructive fireballs when they had changed into their alternate forms.

The Veela abilities regarding emotions, or more specifically love, were also a widely misunderstood facet of their abilities. Most considered Veela to be purely sexual beings, and their history had been one which had reflected that belief. It had not been uncommon for wealthy men to own a Veela slave, when such things had been legal, and even now, Veela were sought after as second wives, or even as concubines in some cultures. It was that fact that made growing up—and even in some cases adult life—difficult for many Veela, as most of them went through every day life knowing that most men who saw them were interested in their perceived sexual prowess and not much more.

In truth, however, Veela were highly attuned to the emotion of love, their sexual nature merely being a byproduct of their ability to sense the wants and desires of their partners. True, the allure acted as a magnet and in some cases a weapon against those who were affected by such things, but for a Veela, nothing was more attractive than a prospective mate who could withstand the effects of the allure. They could sense love in others, in all its various forms, which was why if a Veela was fortunate to find true love, they quickly recognized this, and went through life secure in their partner's affections.

As Fleur reflected on the past weeks in the company of her betrothed, she thought on what she had been able to glean from his emotions. She knew that she had yet to touch Harry's heart, not surprising considering his upbringing and the way this whole situation had been sprung upon him. Far from feeling frustration for his hesitance, she was glad he still seemed to be cautious of moving their relationship forward too quickly. She knew from experience that Harry was almost immune to her allure, and for him to fall in love with her so quickly would indicate an emotional immaturity and weakness of character which would be at odds with the strength of mind which allowed him to resist her.

No, Fleur was perfectly content to allow her relationship with Harry to follow its natural course, helped along by nothing more than time spent in one another's company, and the manner in which they would hopefully become friends, and later lovers. Besides, beyond the fact that she could sense emotions, as a Veela, Fleur was also very instinctively able to determine compatibility, and she knew that she and Harry _were_ well-suited for one another. Her future looked bright with Harry, not only when considering Harry's character and abilities, but also from the likelihood of their becoming emotionally attached to one another. She knew that it was only a matter of time—eventually they would come to love one another. This was not an issue.

What was an issue were the emotions Harry so blatantly displayed for someone else—at least it was blatant to a Veela who naturally noticed these things. Though she suspected Harry himself did not understand his own feelings, Fleur was positive that he was in love with his best friend. And if she was any judge of the matter, Fleur was certain that Hermione returned Harry's feelings wholeheartedly. Of course, they were only fifteen years of age, but already Fleur could tell that regardless of their tender years, their mutual feelings were not the kind of childish infatuation most teenagers could be expected to feel. Theirs was the kind of mature regard and love Fleur so desperately wanted for herself—the kind of love built upon years of friendship, companionship and mutual respect and affection.

On one level, Fleur felt bad about the fact that the marriage contract had essentially removed Harry's choice. Assuming they had ever truly been able to communicate their feelings, Fleur knew that Harry and Hermione were as good a match as she was with Harry. Had it been entirely left to their choices, Fleur never would have even been in the picture—their relationship being so much stronger due to their long friendship, they would almost certainly have married when they had upon reaching adulthood. The fact that it had not been _her_ decision which had taken away _his_ was a consolation, but as she had told him previously, she did feel responsible for the fact that his name would likely not continue with her as a wife. And she knew that this was a _very_ big issue, whether he yet understood that fact or not.

Her parents were in much the same situation, in fact. Her father had given up much to marry her mother, and he had done it solely due to the fact that he loved her and would not live without her. Without a son, his own name would die out, and he could not even ask for a male grandchild to continue his name, due to the near impossibility of either Gabrielle or Fleur herself bearing two sons (one to carry on her husband's name, one to carry on her father's.)

Could she do this to Harry? Could she go through life knowing that such a venerable name as the magical Potters would disappear from the world with her as Harry's wife?

There was another way, of course. Fleur was well aware of the traditions and customs of the magical world, and knew that Harry, as the last surviving member of his family, was a prime candidate for having multiple wives. If Fleur could not give him a son, then by marrying someone else, he would have a much better chance to gain the heir he would some day want. And Fleur knew just who would fit into Harry's married life as seamlessly as she fit into her role as friend.

The problem, of course, was convincing Hermione that this was the right thing to do. Fleur was convinced of Hermione's feelings for Harry, but he also knew that the girl now considered Harry beyond her reach—the girl's sadness had not gone unnoticed. It would undoubtedly be a disaster if Hermione were to turn to someone else in her pain, especially as the person to whom she was most likely to turn was her other best friend.

Ron, though Fleur did not dislike the redhead, was somewhat immature, and had certain issues he would have to work through before he could finally grow up. What was more, was that all of Fleur's senses told her that Ron was a very poor match for Hermione, and that she would end up regretting her choice if she settled for Ron as a replacement for Harry. No, Ron would not do at all.

Again, the biggest problem for Hermione would be helping her to become accustomed to the thought of sharing her husband, for Hermione had been brought up in Muggle society which banned such unions as immoral and unnatural. Yet Fleur was almost certain that Hermione marrying Harry was the best thing the young woman could do. They suited one another on every level.

It helped, of course, that Fleur genuinely liked Hermione—she doubted she could have countenanced sharing her future husband with a woman she did not like wholeheartedly. With Hermione, she had no such issues. Hermione was not perfect, Fleur knew, but in an odd sort of way, Harry and Hermione balanced out each other's strengths and weaknesses rather well. And though perhaps others would scoff at Fleur's self-aggrandizement, she fancied that her presence with Harry would only improve the dynamic.

Perhaps it was time to have a quick chat with Hermione. Harry would not be ready for marriage for several years at least—not that Fleur herself was ready either—but if she got Hermione thinking about it early enough, maybe the girl would have to time get used to the idea and come to her own conclusion sooner, rather than later. Yes, she would need to speak with Hermione—before they returned to school, if possible.

A knock on Fleur's door brought her out of her musings. When she called out her permission to open the door, her mother stepped into the room.

It was unsurprising, perhaps, Fleur thought with an internal grin, that her mother should come to visit her just when she was contemplating her future life. She knew that Apolline had sensed the same things Fleur had—her mother probably knew earlier, as she had more than two decades more experience with her abilities than Fleur.

"Ah, my dear," greeted the elder Delacour woman. "I was hoping to speak with you."

"Of course, Maman," said Fleur, rising from her reclined state and sitting on the edge of the bed. Her mother sat next to her and appeared to be considering her words before speaking. That she was concerned for her, Fleur could easily tell—Veela women had a certain affinity for each other, which was only stronger between those related. Fleur had always known that her mother loved her and was there for her, regardless of the circumstances. It was a comfort beyond anything else she had ever known.  
"How are you getting along with Harry?" was the opening question.

"Fine, Maman," Fleur responded. "He is a very nice young man, and treats me with respect and consideration. I believe that we will do very well together."

Apolline smiled at her daughter. "I believe you will. I have sensed the same thing about your young man. But do not forget to take the time to get to know him better—despite your apparent compatibility, a strong relationship will not grow from nothing. And I wish for you to have the same happiness in life that I have found with your father."

"I will, Maman. We have only truly known one another for a few weeks now, so I am sure you realize that love has not grown between us. I am content to let it develop on its own."

Apolline Delacour eyed her daughter. "Yes, that is perhaps for the best."

Mother and daughter were silent for several moments, Fleur content to wait for her mother to get to the point, while her mother, she suspected, was searching for the proper way to broach the subject. She seemed to struggle with indecision, before she took a deep breath and began speaking once again.

"Fleur, I will not insult your intelligence by supposing that you have not seen it for yourself, but I wish to know what you mean to do about this situation between Harry and his best friend."

"Maman…"

Apolline's stern glance silenced her daughter. "Fleur, you cannot ignore the situation. Harry's feelings for Hermione are strong, _and_ returned. You cannot begin a relationship with that hanging over your head."

An exasperated sigh was Fleur's response. "And what would you have me do, Maman? If I push them on it, I do not doubt that at this point in time I would lose Harry altogether—oh, I know he cannot get out of the marriage contract, but I would give up any chance of making a connection with him. They have a strong bond of friendship, regardless of whatever else they feel for each other, and I do not wish to anger Harry by demanding he give up his closest friend. Besides, it is not fair to Harry—he did not choose this for himself."

"I am aware of that, Fleur," responded her mother evenly. "But should you not be selfish in this matter? Harry is to be _your_ husband, not Hermione's."

"He could be husband to us both."

Though her piercing gaze never relented, Apolline's stern countenance softened and she put her arm around Fleur, hugging her in commiseration and support. "So, that is the lay of the land, is it?"

"It is Maman, and I hardly think there is any other choice in the matter."

Feeling the upwelling of her emotions which she had previously held in check, Fleur rose and began to pace the floor, wringing her hands with some agitation. "Harry and Hermione are so close—as I've already told you, I don't think that forbidding them from seeing one another is the right thing to do, nor do I think it is fair. I did not choose this any more than Harry did, but I think in certain respects it has been easier on me, than it has on Harry. _I_ do not have someone else with whom I am in love—Harry does, though he may not know it himself.

"Do I want to share my husband? Part of me shudders at the very thought. But another part recognizes the situation and accepts that it would be likely in any event—he is the last Potter, after all. And though I hesitate, I also understand that Hermione is such a fine young woman. I could have been forced to share my husband with someone much worse."

"You do not _have_ to share your husband at all, Fleur," Apolline soothed. "You will be the first wife, after all—all others must be approved by you."

Fleur stopped her pacing and slumped back into her former place by her mother. "Perhaps that is true, Maman. But there is also the matter of the continuation of Harry's line to consider. You know as well as I that the chance of giving him a son to continue his name are small. That leaves us the option of convincing some young man to forsake his own name and take on our daughter's (and then have the same problem the next generation!) or allow Harry to take another wife, who should be able to give him a son."

Apolline's face curved into a smile. "Somehow this situation sounds familiar," she declared.

"You had the same issue with Papa?"

"I did," Apolline confirmed with a smile. "Your father and I had a similar discussion when I informed him that I would likely be able to bear nothing but daughters. He thought about it for a time because, as you know, it is an important consideration in our world, and then declared he loved me and no other, claiming that it did not matter to him a whit, as he would be as happy with daughters as he would be with a son, should a miracle happen and I give birth to a boy. And I don't think that he's ever regretted that decision. Perhaps Harry would be the same way."

"I am sure he would," Fleur responded. "Harry was not brought up in our world, and has not had the concept of carrying on the family name drilled into him. I'm sure Harry would say the same thing that Papa said if I asked."

"Then why do you fret? He is young—perhaps he will get over his infatuation with his friend in time."

Fleur stared at her mother incredulously. "I know _you_ do not believe that, maman. You have much more experience with this than _I _do, and _I_ can tell their emotions are true."

Apolline's answering grimace was rueful. "Much as I wish I could claim otherwise, I cannot."

"And _that_ is why I have chosen as I have. I understand Papa's situation, but Papa was not forced into a betrothal contract when he was in love with someone else. I will not take this away from Harry, Maman—he deserves to have his heart's desire. I think highly of Hermione as well—she deserves Harry as much as he deserves her.

"Besides, I have another motivation. I do not know why, but I feel as though Harry will require the support of us both in the time to come. I cannot explain it, but I know it is true."

The sharp gaze of her mother pierced her, but Fleur stood firm. She was not certain where this impression had come from, but the more she thought of it, the more she knew it was true. For Harry to be successful in his quest against Voldemort, he would need the support of them both.

"It appears, then, that you have made your decision. I will support you in this, as you well know."

Fleur smile and engulfed her mother in a large embrace. "I know you will, Maman, and I thank you for it."

"I _will_ support you, Fleur," Apolline said with a steady look, "but that does not mean I like this. I had hoped you would find true love with your young man."

"And who says that I will not?" replied Fleur, her manner impish. "Regardless of Harry's feelings for Hermione, I am still very compatible with him. Harry has more than enough room in his heart for both Hermione and me, Maman. I perhaps do not like the situation, but I am also confident that Harry and I can come into our own feelings for each other, separate from what he also has with Hermione."

Apolline smiled and reached up to touch her daughter's face with affection. "I believe he does have an amazing capacity for love, my daughter—I believe he truly does."

* * *

At Hogwarts, the staff was busily preparing for the upcoming term, which was set to begin in only a few days. Summer was a time for a variety of tasks which were not able to be performed during the school year—the whole castle was aired out and cleaned, lessons for the upcoming year were prepared by the professors, and a myriad of other administrative tasks were completed, all necessary for the smooth and proper running of the school.

As had been their tradition as long as they had been in their respective positions—and Minerva McGonagall had been the deputy Headmistress since Horace Slughorn had retired, a period of well over a decade—Minerva found herself in the Headmaster's office, going over a last few details in preparation for the return of the students.

They had been doing this for so many years now and knew each other so well, that their meetings were almost always efficient and brief. Minerva knew that her mentor held the highest of confidence in her abilities, and was grateful for the fact. After all, due to his commitments with the Wizengamot and the ICW, it seemed as though Dumbledore was absent from the school as much as he was present. Minerva was the Headmistress in all but name for much of the year.

This particular meeting began no differently than any other time they had met during the past decade. Minerva made her report of the incoming first year students—particularly the Muggleborn students, as it was part of her duty to deliver their acceptance letters and explain the new world in which they would soon find themselves.

They had made it a practice over the years to discuss the new students, and amuse themselves by guessing into which houses they would be sorted, almost making a game it. Some were easy—Draco Malfoy, for example had been unlikely in the extreme to have been sorted into any other house other than Slytherin. Privately, Minerva thought the lad's destiny in Slytherin was due to his complete lack of loyalty to anyone other than himself (and perhaps his father, who invariably came up in just about any conversation with him), his less than stellar intellect, and the fact that he was a bully, and therefore a complete coward. It was the ones who could end up in multiple houses who were the most interesting to guess. And then there were those surprises such as Miss Granger, who no one thought would end up in Gryffindor.

"I do have one question, Albus," Minerva remarked after their conversation regarding the new students wound down.

"Please, Minerva," Dumbledore responded, leaning back in his chair.

"Miss Delacour. She will be attending Hogwarts this year, but what do you mean to do with her? Will you just place her in Gryffindor, or will you let the hat decide?"

Dumbledore appeared to contemplate the matter for several moments before responding. "Though it would be less than ideal to place her in a house without her betrothed, I think we shall have her wear the hat anyway. I suspect she will be placed in Gryffindor anyway, given what I know of her, so it should not matter."

Minerva nodded. "I remember the second task last year. It was clear she was terrified—understandable, given her nature—but she competed in defiance of her fears, the outcome notwithstanding."

"Exactly," rumbled Dumbledore. "If the hat does place her in another house, we will have to make a decision then. There is one house for which she would not be suited at all, not that I believe the hat would place her _there_."

A grimace of distaste met his declaration. "She'd be in physical danger in Slytherin, Albus—you know this. Even many of those whose families' are not associated with the Death Eaters would consider her a freak and a plaything."

"Quite," confirmed the Headmaster. "She is not without ambition, but it is not her defining trait, so I think the odds of that happening are very low in any case. But though she is intelligent, I do not think that Ravenclaw would suit her either. Of course Gryffindor would be best, though Hufflepuff would perhaps work for her as well."

McGonagall smiled and nodded. This conversation was likely academic anyway—she was almost certain to be sorted into Gryffindor.

"Bring her to my office before the feast, we can sort her in private," Dumbledore instructed. "There is no reason to subject her to a sorting in front of the entire school along with the first years."

McGonagall expressed her agreement, before the Headmaster moved onto another topic.

"And what of your choices for Gryffindor prefect?"

"Yes, of course," McGonagall responded. Rarely had the choices for prefect been so obvious to her—in fact, Dumbledore likely already knew who she would choose, as well as she did herself.

"As neither of the head students this year are from Gryffindor, and my sixth and seventh year prefects performed their duties well last year, I will not be replacing any of them. As for fifth year, I don't think I've ever had such an easy decision in all my time at Hogwarts. The prefects will be Hermione Granger and Harry Potter."

Dumbledore was silent for several moments, stroking his beard as if in thought. McGonagall wondered at his unusual behavior—Miss Granger could not be disputed, and as the Headmaster took such pride in Mr. Potter's accomplishments, she was surprised he had not immediately agreed with her choices.

"Yes, Minerva, excellent choices indeed," he said at last. "However, do you not think that perhaps the fifth year prefect position should be offered to young Mr. Weasley instead of Mr. Potter?"

Nonplused at the Headmaster's words, it was all Minerva could do to keep her countenance. Dumbledore had never taken any overt interest in her choices in the past except to approve them. What possible reason could he have for objecting to the choice of Harry for prefect, especially given how she knew he personally felt for the boy?

Still, Dumbledore was nothing if not thoughtful and intelligent, and Minerva knew he would not suggest such a thing for no good reason. She opened her mouth to agree with him, when she considered his suggestion once again, and thought of the possible ramifications of the posting he was suggesting. No, she could not possibly agree with him without some sort of indication as to why he thought Harry should be passed over.

"I'm sorry, Headmaster, but why do you believe Mr. Potter is unsuited for the position?"

"Not unsuited, Minerva," Dumbledore responded. "I have the highest confidence in Harry's abilities, as you well know. I am merely concerned about his state of mind and the many things he has to deal with. Perhaps the position of prefect would be too much for him to handle, under the circumstances."

McGonagall scowled. "I am afraid I must disagree, Albus. Harry is not perhaps the most studious young man I've ever taught—though a little application would go a long way in improving his grades—but his other qualities of leadership and maturity make him the best choice in my opinion. I also believe it sends a bad message to the entire house if a deserving young man such as Mr. Potter is passed over for the honor, for someone who is not nearly as qualified. Mr. Weasley is a good young man, but I believe he lacks the emotional maturity for the position.

"Besides, I feel it far better for Mr. Potter to learn to manage his life—_all_ facets of his life—while he is young, rather than coddling him unnecessarily. If anyone can manage everything happening around him, I believe Harry is that young man. You do him a disservice by discounting his abilities in such a manner."

Dumbledore chuckled and bowed his head. "That is precisely why I appreciate your abilities and candor, Minerva. You are correct—I had been thinking of sparing Harry some responsibility, but I do agree that if anyone can handle the pressure, it is surely Mr. Potter. Thank you for setting me straight."

Mollified, Minerva responded it was no trouble, happy she was able to persuade him to her point of view. They spoke on for a few more moments before their meeting came to an end. Minerva left the office, her mind already upon the tasks she would need to complete to be ready for the students' arrival.

* * *

The last few days of summer holidays passed, leaving Harry wondering at all the changes which had occurred in his life over the past four weeks. It had been a lot to take in, but he was happy with everything which had happened, and was, for once, looking forward to the future with something akin to anticipation, rather than the dread which had often been his wont.

His relationship with Fleur, though still progressing very slowly, was at least characterized by a friendliness that he had not been certain he would able to attain, and her personality, sweet, yet confident and determined, was one with which he was certain he would be able to love. Hermione had almost moved into the ambassador's manor, not returning to her home or Grimmauld Place for even the weekends, a situation which was made even better for the young witch due to the fact that her parents were now regular visitors, and stayed through the weekend themselves. It was good, Harry reflected, that the Delacours were not uncomfortable around Muggles, and the Grangers had in a short time become very good friends with them.

The Weasley children—along with Neville and Luna—were much in evidence as well, though as a group they had not been allowed to stay for the weekends. Neville and Luna also returned to their homes for the weekends, though they had not been forced to by their guardians. Both simply stated that they would like to spend time at home—Luna with her father, and Neville with his grandmother—and their explanations were accepted for what they were.

In Neville, Harry had begun to see a true and loyal friend. The bumbling young man he had once been had been replaced, and now in his place stood one who was growing and maturing, and now that he had had his wand replaced, he was excelling where he once had thought he would never be able to do so. Harry now counted him a close friend, and was happy that he had joined them—his new confidence made him a great asset, and a better friend than ever before.

As for Luna, Harry was still not certain what to think of the quirky Ravenclaw. Her constant prattling of all the fantastical creatures which no one else could see sometimes had him wondering about her sanity. But she could be as lucid as anyone else—though always some what whimsical—leading Harry to wonder if there was something in her past which made her act as she did. As she had yet to open up about her past, Harry could not be certain, but he genuinely liked her and respected her abilities. And though she was not as brilliant as Hermione, she was clearly very intelligent, and added a dynamic to the group which would be missed if she were to disassociate herself with them.

The Wednesday before the end of the month saw the entire group engaged in their last training session with Moody. Though they had been clearly covering the material he taught at a highly accelerated rate, none of them had felt like they were getting in over their heads. Moody, as strange and paranoid as he was, had a way of imparting his message that made the learning all the easier, and Harry, though he knew he still had much to learn before he could truly be deemed proficient, felt as though he had learned more than had ever before.

After their session for that day, Moody gathered the entire group together and had them stand at attention, much as he had on his first day in the manor. Though Harry had heard all about Moody's philosophy from the man during the course of their training sessions—and from the imposter during the previous school year—the old Auror never tired of constantly harping on the lessons he taught. Their final lecture was quintessential Moody, and caused more than one set of rolled eyes and grins, though Harry knew his advice to be sound.

"Now then," the Auror began when they had all been arranged to his satisfaction, "this is your last training session before the end of the summer. Now, who among you thinks you have mastered everything I have to teach?"

No one said a word—not only did they all realize they had much to learn, but they also knew Moody was fond of spouting off questions designed to trip them up, then teaching them how wrong they were. This was one of his less than subtle attempts.

"Good. The first thing to be aware of is how little you know. I have been an Auror for more than fifty years, and I can tell you that I am still learning.

"You have all put your best effort into these sessions, and I must tell you I have been impressed with you all—high praise from me, I can tell you. You are all competent, and even gifted, and I know that you will continue to do well."

He stopped walking around the room and stood in front of them, fixing his gaze upon them sternly. Or at least his real eye was fixed on them—the false eye whirled this way and that, seemingly at random as it usually did. "_However_," he continued, emphasizing the word, "though you may be very competent, you will never improve if you do not continue to practice. Returning to Hogwarts is _not_ an excuse to slack off—constant practice will be necessary to retain all that you have learned and improve.

"I will not be at Hogwarts this year—I have other tasks to accomplish. You can still enlist the assistance of the Headmaster, and though you may not know this, your Charms Professor was quite the duelist in his day. In addition to this, Miss Delacour and the two elder Mr. Weasleys," he nodded to the elder students, "also have at least two more years of schooling than the rest of you—use their knowledge and set up a time when you can all practice together. Remember what I taught you, and you will do well.

"And above all," he suddenly thundered, "you must remember and practice _constant vigilance!_"

The twins shared an amused grin, while others of the group fought valiantly to keep their own from their faces. Of course, this did not go unnoticed by their trainer.

"Mr. Potter!" he barked.

"Yes, Auror Moody?"

"Do you know who the Death Eater children at Hogwarts are?"

Harry thought for a moment before replying. "I know some. There's Malfoy, of course, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Pucey, Zabini, probably Parkinson, the Greengrass sisters… Heck, all of Slytherin house could likely be included."

Moody's answering smile was positively feral.

"That's an assumption, Potter. The fact is that though some of the group you just mentioned were almost certainly Death Eaters, to paint the whole house with the same brush is incorrect. Remember this lesson—you must always be vigilant, but do not assume.

"Weasley!" he continued. "Who are the Death Eater spawn in Gryffindor house?"

The incredulous expression on Ron's face was priceless. "But… but… there are no children of Death Eaters in Gryffindor!" he sputtered, appearing highly offended.

"Are you certain? What evidence do you have? Were _you_ at the Death Eater trials at the end of the first war? Can you see into the minds of your classmates and read their intentions?"

Though he continued to sputter, Ron could say nothing in response. Harry glanced around the room, noting the looks of speculation on most of the faces. It was the general opinion in his house that Gryffindors were "good," while Slytherins were "evil." Most of those in the other houses seemed to occupy a position somewhere in between the two. But now that Harry thought of it, why should it be so? He had learned long ago that very few things were black and white—qualifying people in that matter was remarkably short-sighted, and inherently dangerous.

"What then, is Gryffindor house too noble to house Death Eaters and their children?"

Harry was hesitant to speak up, but he knew to what Moody was referring, and thought it would make a good object lesson. "What about Pettigrew?"

Moody's eyes pierced Harry—though the false one continued to gyrate insanely—and he stepped back with a grimace. "Pettigrew! Very good, Mr. Potter."

"What do you think, Mr. Weasley?" Mad-eye demanded of Ron. "Still think that everyone in your house must be lily white?"

Appearing thoughtful, Ron shook his head.

"And well you should not. _Anyone_ can hide who they truly are. In fact, it is the truly cunning ones you must watch carefully. The Slytherins are known and can be a problem, even though they are mostly milksops who are not as dangerous as their parents were. But it is the Death Eater sympathizers in the other houses who you truly must beware of."

"Even if no one in your house is an actual Death Eater, can you be certain that none of them are under the Imperius curse?"

Suddenly, Moody spun and launched a stinging hex at Neville. Neville, though he had often been considered to be a duffer, in actuality had very quick reflexes, and he had snapped off a Protego in time to absorb the stinging hex before it could hit him. Moody had been doing this the entire time they had been taking lessons from him, and they had all become proficient by this time in protecting themselves from his random attacks.

Moody barked out a laugh, and slapped Neville on the back, before stumping to the front of the room, and turning to face the trainees. "Very good. I am proud of you all. But you must remember to practice vigilance. Be certain you know who is around you, and be watchful of your surroundings at all times—even places which are supposed to be 'safe,' such as your common rooms. You can never know who has been turned to the enemy's cause, willingly or not."

* * *

The group broke up very soon after Moody's lecture, and they soon found themselves in the manor dining room, eating the lunch provided by the manor house-elves. Their training over for the summer, Hermione could now look forward to returning to Hogwarts for the school year.

She blushed, thinking that she was likely the only one of the group who was actually looking forward to more schooling. Looking around with a critical eye she revised that opinion—Luna, being a Ravenclaw, was likely excited as well, and though she still did not know Fleur as well as she would like, she felt confident that the French witch was quite happy to continue learning. Even Harry seemed somewhat eager to be returning to Hogwarts, though perhaps not as much as in previous years. Of course, that was due to the fact that until this year he had lived with his relatives—from what she knew of _them_, getting away from them was likely as much a factor in his relief to be returning to Hogwarts as anything else.

Sighing, Hermione turned back to her meal, thinking of all the changes and the new friends she had made. The Weasley twins she had of course known before, and Neville she could now count as a friend, as before he had perhaps been little more than an acquaintance, while being less than a friend. Ginny had fit into a little more of a "casual friend" category, while Fleur, though she was coming to consider a close friend, had been a complete unknown. Even Luna, who Hermione recognized was a diametric opposite to herself, was now treading into that hallowed ground of friendship, regardless of the differences between them.

For Hermione, friends were a treasure to be carefully nurtured and preserved. It come from her rather lonely upbringing, she knew, but the knowledge of how it had come about mattered little—she would do whatever she could to help her friends, and knew that they would do the same.

Frowning, Hermione peered around the room to the assembled training group. In fact, other than the Weasleys, all the others had had a rather solitary upbringing. None of them had had quite the experience Harry had, but each, in their own way, had been lonely as a child. Fleur was set apart by her beauty and heritage, Neville by his fears over his abilities—not to mention his overbearing and protective grandmother—Luna by her nature, while Hermione was set apart by her intelligence. It bound them together in a very real sense, she thought, and made them closer and more loyal to one another as a result. And the four Weasleys were bound to the group by deep ties of friendship, not to mention that Harry had saved one of their number from certain death when he had been merely a boy. These would be her friends, confidants, and fellow soldiers in the years to come. It was a heady feeling.

Apolline Delacour entered the room at that moment, with a smile on her face and some envelopes in her hands. "These arrived while you were in training," she said as she passed the envelopes to Harry, Fleur and Hermione. "I suspect your letters went to your homes," she stated, addressing the other occupants of the room.

Suddenly excited, Hermione tore open her envelope to reveal her Hogwarts letter and booklist for the coming year. It was receiving the long anticipated letter which had always brought home the reality of her imminent return to the school, and the end of the summer. But this time, there was something else in the envelope—something which fell from the ruined envelope and tumbled to the floor, making a tinkling sound as it rolled to a stop.

Curious, Hermione bent down to retrieve the object, her hand trembling slightly as she speculated as to what it could be. She knew as soon as she touched the cool metal with her fingers what it was, the supposition being confirmed by the sight of the shiny metal badge with a large "P" engraved upon its surface. A prefect badge!

"Hermione, you've made prefect?" Harry asked with a delighted smile upon his face.

Nodding, Hermione held up the badge for all to see. A round of congratulations came in from all sides of the room, as Hermione blushed from the praise.

When the tumult had died down, Ron snorted and addressed her. "Oh come now, Hermione, who else would be the Gryffindor prefect? I've known since first year you'd get it."

Hermione glared at him, but her heart was not in it—besides, the grin on his face belied any sting his words might have delivered. "Well, _I_ didn't know, Ronald, and I'm honored that Professor McGonagall has this much confidence in me."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like she was going to pick Lavender "more-boobs-than-brains" Brown, or Parvati "there's-no-secret-I-can't-turn-into-gossip" Patil. Besides, our whole house together doesn't even know _half_ the rules you do. It had to be you!"

Laughter erupted in the room, and Hermione's cheeks pinked slightly at Ron's assertions. She directed a mock glare in his direction, but he merely waggled his eyebrows at her and laughed along with the rest of them. Hermione sniffed at him, and turned back to her booklist, making a note of everything she would have to purchase.

"So who's the other Gryffindor prefect?" Luna inquired, glancing pointedly at Harry.

Hermione looked up from her list to see everyone in the room speculating over the three potential candidates.

"Me, of course," Ron stated proudly.

"And how do you reckon that?" Ginny queried with a snort.

"Well, it's like this," Ron began, "Hermione here is a straitlaced rules enforcer, and to balance her out, they need a fun loving, laid-back sort of chap—which I am. Obviously, it has to be me."

Hermione rolled her eyes at her friend and shook her head. Hopefully he was joking. She thought he was joking, anyway.

"Nah, my money's on Harry," George said.

All eyes turned to the black-haired young man. Harry, though seemingly somewhat uncomfortable with everyone watching him, shrugged his shoulders and opened his envelope. Reaching in to its depths, he produced an identical prefects' badge to Hermione's, and smiled at George. "Should have made that bet, George—you would have won."

Another round of congratulations rang in from around the room, while Hermione darted around the table and hugged him. She was pleased—not only was Harry still her friend, but they would now be working together more closely than ever. Harry truly was a great choice.

* * *

One among the company was not as thrilled as the rest. Ron sat back in his chair, a hint of a scowl upon his face as he thought of Harry getting the prefects' badge. It was another example of the Boy-Who-Lived getting something that he did not, and Ron was frankly getting rather tired of it. And Hermione's reaction was a little more… affectionate than Ron liked.

"Ron!" a voice hissed from his side.

Startled, he turned, noting Ginny's glare.

"What?"

"You are not going to do this, Ron. Let go of your jealousy!"

Scowling, Ron turned away from her. "Don't worry, Ginny, I won't say anything."

"Your body language is saying it for you, Ron," Ginny insisted. "Why would you have wanted the badge anyway, Ron? It's not like you truly wanted to enforce the rules and deal with the responsibility of being a prefect, do you? Think of it—the boring meetings, the time you'd need to do patrols, having to obey and enforce the rules. Think about it!"

A little shamefaced, Ron considered Ginny's points, knowing she was right. He did not want to worry about rules and such—he wanted to play Quidditch, play chess, do his homework (preferably as quickly as possible), and have fun. Being a prefect would put a major damper on all that. Better Harry than him.

On the other hand, part of the reason he had wanted to become a prefect was because he would get to spend more time with Hermione. Now, that time was Harry's.

But Harry _was_ his best mate, and he had already told Ron he had no interest in Hermione in _that _way. Perhaps it was for the best this way—Ron had a good idea of what Hermione's feelings for Harry were, but knew that Harry could not return them. With them both being prefects, they would have time alone, true, but Hermione would learn fairly quickly—if she did not already know—that she could not have a relationship with Harry. Added to that, Harry would be the one with the responsibility, and he would also protect Hermione from others who may fancy her. None of Neville, Seamus, or Dean had ever shown much inclination for her in the past, but she was becoming more fanciable all the time, after all. Better she was with someone who was already taken, than someone who might be sniffing around her.

Besides, Harry was a good bloke, and he deserved to have some good come into his life. So Ron sucked up his pride and extended his hand to his friend, congratulating him for becoming a prefect. Harry's responding smile and thanks was all Ron needed to know that he had made the right choice in being gracious.

* * *

_Updated 05/16/2013  
_


	11. Chapter 10 – Summer's End

**Chapter 10 – Summer's End**

If Harry Potter had learned one thing, it was that anything good in his mixed-up life was certain to be balanced—or overbalanced!—by something equally negative. He could not be allowed to be _completely_ happy, now could he? That summer after his fourth year had been by far the best of his life. Regardless of the month at the Dursleys—they had actually left him alone for the most part—regardless of the Dementors and the trial and regardless of anything else which had happened, he had been happy. Simply put, this summer he had found acceptance, and what he felt was the love and support of a family. But in Harry Potter's strange world, it was unsurprising that the summer should ultimately end on a negative note with news of a toad.

It was the last day of summer before they were to board the Express to return to Hogwarts. Neville and Luna had returned to their respective homes the previous evening, promising to see their friends the following day, while the Weasleys had left for the Burrow, though they were to join the Delacour party in Diagon Alley that afternoon to shop for their school supplies.

Harry had left the breakfast room, and was sitting in the main parlor of the Ambassador's Mansion, thinking of the previous month spent with his new family, and the school year to come. It was amazing how his perception had changed in the short month since the Dementor attack. Before, he had always been excited and eager to return to Hogwarts, whether he had been stuck at Privet Drive until the very end, or had actually managed to escape for some weeks—Hogwarts was the only place he had ever truly been able to call home. However, this year, with the kindness of the Delacours, he was almost sorry to be leaving them behind, though, of course, Fleur would return to Hogwarts with him. Apolline was kind and a pleasure to be with, Gabrielle was bubbly and excitable, and Jean-Sebastian had become the father he had never known. Not even Sirius could claim to be a father figure—Sirius, with his effervescent personality and ability to see the humor in anything, was almost like an older brother. Privately, Harry suspected that Sirius preferred it that way, as he considered himself too young to be a father.

As for the return to Hogwarts, Harry could predict much of what he would be facing this year. Though Fudge had been declawed to a certain extent by the defeat he had suffered at Harry's trial, it was easy to conclude that the Minister's attacks against both him and Dumbledore would continue. As long as Fudge refused to acknowledge the return of Voldemort, many would believe him, and Harry would be ridiculed for it. It was good to know he had friends and supporters who _did_ believe him and would stand beside him regardless of what happened.

Of course the normal school year events would continue to plague him—from Snape's unreasonable hatred to Malfoy's continual goading, though Harry was much less inclined to cut the mini-Death Eater any slack than he had been in the past. The little ferret was a problem which would have to be dealt with sooner, rather than later…

It was while Harry was immersed in these thoughts that the Floo flared, and the voice of the Headmaster came through the network asking for permission to step through. Having been tutored by Jean-Sebastian, Harry immediately went to the Floo and granted permission to the professor, and stepped back to allow his Headmaster to come through.

"Ah, Harry, just who I wanted to see," greeted Dumbledore when he arrived. "I have some news which will affect us all in the coming year. If you would be so good as to call Jean-Sebastian and your friends, I would appreciate the opportunity to share it with all of you at once."

Harry assented and left the room, his mind already speculating as to what the professor wanted to share. It could be nothing good, he was certain.

It took Harry only a few moments to summon the residents of the manor to the parlor to receive the Headmaster's news. With the departure of the Weasleys and their other friends—as well as Hermione's parents who had only been staying over the weekend—only the family was left in residence, along with Hermione, who would stay until they returned to Hogwarts.

With the entire group gathered, Dumbledore smiled at them and spoke. "I have some news to share with you all, and as it may affect what happens at Hogwarts this year, I decided that I should inform you all in advance. Especially you, Jean-Sebastian," he continued, nodding at the Delacour patriarch, "as you have expressed some concerns regarding the children's schooling to me privately."

Jean-Sebastian appeared stern as he gazed back at Dumbledore, his face almost expressionless. "Your opening statements are not exactly inspiring confidence, Dumbledore. Perhaps you should come to the point?"

Chuckling, Dumbledore nodded his head in assent. "My apologies to you all—sometimes we of the elder generations forget that those younger than us do not like to hear us talk nearly as much as we enjoy the sound of our own voices. The point it is.

"Today I was notified that the Ministry has appointed a professor to fill the ever problematic Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts. Harry and Hermione will certainly be aware that we have not been able to keep a professor in that position for more than a year, a problem with dates back to the late sixties."

"But why, Headmaster?" asked Harry. "It's not as though it's a bad position—I'd think it would be fairly prestigious, to be honest."

"And so it should be, Harry."

"Do you have any indication what is wrong?" Jean-Sebastian interjected. "Surely it cannot be coincidence."

"I do not believe it is coincidence, but unfortunately, I do not have any concrete evidence—only supposition and guesswork, which unfortunately seem to fit the circumstances."

Dumbledore turned to Harry and affixed him with a questioning look. "Harry, unless I misremember, I believe that you previously learned the identity of the Dark Lord, did you not?"

"Tom Riddle," Harry replied with a nod. "He told me it was an anagram for Voldemort."

"It is indeed," agreed Dumbledore. "So, would it surprise you to learn that Tom applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts twice?"

"Voldemort applied to become a professor?" Jean-Sebastian demanded. "Was that before or after he started his campaign of violence?"

"Well before, Jean-Sebastian. Had he come after, I would not have allowed him to escape, I assure you."

Dumbledore's expression became introspective for a few moments, while Harry considered what he had been told. Voldemort as the Defense teacher? He shuddered at the very thought.

"His first application was made during my predecessor's tenure. Headmaster Dippet interviewed him and thanked him for his interest, but told him that he was too young and inexperienced for the position. He asked Tom to return the next time the position was open, after he had had a chance to work in the wizarding world and develop his skills further. I believe at that time Tom, though perhaps not pleased to be refused, accepted the advice and went out to prove himself.

"The second time he applied was not long after I had become Headmaster. By this time he was more than qualified for the position."

"Then why did you not hire him?"

Jean-Sebastian's question hung in the room for a few moments, and though Harry thought he knew the answer, he said nothing. His thoughts were confirmed by Dumbledore's next words.

"I did not hire him because I did not trust him—something about him seemed off to me. I suspect, in hindsight, that by this time he was already well practiced in the dark arts, which was why he seemed to be so qualified—those who employ the dark arts themselves, _are_ uniquely positioned to understand them, after all. I am certain Harry and Hermione remember how effective the Polyjuiced Barty Crouch Jr. was as a teacher."

Harry did not really like recalling the Death Eater and what had happened in his classes, but he nodded tightly to the Headmaster.

"Therefore," Dumbledore said, continuing his narrative, "I thanked Tom again for his interest, but told him I had another candidate with more experience teaching—which was in fact true—and declined to offer him the position. I thought of offering him a different teaching position to keep him at the school and therefore under my supervision. But again, something about him struck me as wrong, and I ultimately decided that if I could not trust him in one professorship, I could not allow him to influence any of the younger generation in another.

"This time, when he was refused, Riddle was incensed, though he attempted to hide it behind a mask of disappointment. He left and has not set foot in Hogwarts again. However, since that time, I have never been able to keep a Defense professor for more than a single year."

"Are you suggesting he employed a curse, Headmaster?" demanded Hermione. "I've heard of items or locations being cursed, but a position?"

"Very good indeed, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore with a chuckle. "In answer to your question, I suspect that Tom did indeed do just that. The wondrous thing about magic is that if the practitioner is innovative enough, and understands the process and the Arithmancy behind the magic, any existing spell can be modified to do what you wish it to. Magic in general can do almost anything you can imagine, if you can develop the proper manner in which to do it. In fact, I would go so far to say that given the number of cultures in the world which have existed over the millennia, the magics that our society can perform are likely only a fraction of the vast sum of magic which has been developed at one time or another in our race's history. And this does not even mention the other sentient and magical races. Given this, it does not seem so impossible, and if anyone could manage to do something so esoteric as to place a curse on a teaching position, it would be Tom Riddle. He is very intelligent—gifted, even."

"But why? What would he gain from it?" Hermione queried.

"Why does he do anything he does?" was Dumbledore's gentle response. "You may as well ask why you prefer the color blue to the color red. I have no real insight as to the workings of Tom Riddle's mind—I doubt even he completely understands exactly why he thinks the way he does.

"In this particular instance, however, I suspect that there are at least two factors which play significantly into his actions. The first is simple spite—Tom was a very confident and arrogant student and did not take rejection well at all. In that, he has not changed over the years. The other reason was likely to try to weaken our society in general in preparation for his bid for power. Due to the lack of stability in the Defense position, the instruction has not been as good as it should have been. If you look at OWL scores for the past thirty years the average grades in Defense have fallen—in essence, Hogwarts graduates of forty years ago are better able to defend themselves than those graduating today."

"So how do we break the curse?" asked Harry.

"Ah, that is the question, is it not?" was Dumbledore's rhetorical response. "Not knowing exactly how Tom did what he did, the counter-spell would seem to be almost impossible to achieve. However, the easy answer would be to have a professor last for more than one year in the position, thus overcoming the magic of the curse and breaking its hold.

"When Professor Lupin was revealed to be a werewolf at the end of your third year, I tried to persuade him not to resign, reasoning that if this was the curse's way of assuring he not return, the simple matter of his return would break it. Of course, that does not account for the curse potentially using other means to ensure he didn't return. That is neither here nor there, though, as the professor had other—more compelling—reasons to resign. I had intended Professor Moody to be the one to finally break it, but you all know how that turned out. I doubt this year's professor will be any more likely to last more than a single year."

"Which brings us back to our original reason for this discussion, Dumbledore," Jean-Sebastian interjected. "I believe you said the Ministry had assigned you a Defense professor?"

"Ah yes. A lengthy digression, but ultimately a useful one, I believe. The Ministry has indeed assigned a professor for Defense, pulling an old law out of mothballs which dates back some centuries. Essentially, it allows the Ministry to designate a professor if the Headmaster has not been able to fill the position. In this specific case, the inability to keep a professor in that position, coupled with the Crouch incident from last year, has rendered the position almost impossible to fill—I received no applicants for Defense this year, and was turned down by everyone I approached."

"What of Auror Moody?" Hermione asked. "Couldn't he _actually_ be the professor this year?"

"With Voldemort's return, unfortunately Alastor has other, more important duties which require his attention."

Jean-Sebastian glared at Dumbledore with a keen look in his eye. "Dumbledore, I doubt this discussion would have been necessary if the Ministry had simply appointed an Auror, for example, to become the Defense professor. Who did they appoint?"

Grimacing, Dumbledore nodded his head in agreement. "You are correct. I would have been happy with many of our Aurors, though any of them would have been a huge loss to the department. However, the Minister did not make even that choice. Unfortunately, he has appointed the Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge to be the Defense professor."

Though Harry did not immediately recognize the name, it was clear that Jean-Sebastian and Apolline had, if their sudden scowls were any evidence. Harry would have expected Jean-Sebastian to respond, but was surprised when a clearly upset Apolline—who had not yet said anything during the conversation—rounded on Dumbledore.

"Umbridge?" she spat. "That woman is as vile a bigot as I've ever met!"

"I take it you have some experience with the Undersecretary?"

Apolline nodded brusquely. "She was in France a few years ago as a part of a diplomatic delegation, where she made insulting comments about how Veela were creatures which needed to be _controlled_. If she had her way, all Veela would be locked up and studied, but officially designated as less than human. Tell me why I should allow my daughter to be subjected to the machinations of such a despicable woman?"

Reaching an arm out, Jean-Sebastian pulled his wife into a comforting embrace, while maintaining his scowl at Dumbledore. It was clear that he was just as incensed as his wife.

"Apolline is understandably passionate about this issue, Headmaster, and as our country is home to many Veela, Dolores Umbridge is all but _persona non grata_ there. Apolline's question is valid. Fleur—and Harry, if the Undersecretary's performance during his trial is any indication—will be a target for her vitriol. Why should we not remove them both from the potential of such persecution, and have them take up their studies at Beauxbatons?"

Dumbledore spread his hands out wide in a gesture of conciliation. "I understand your concerns, and acknowledge that Madam Umbridge is… distasteful in her beliefs. However, I believe you may not be thinking of all the ramifications of pulling your children from Hogwarts."

Jean-Sebastian shared a look with his wife, before he turned back to Dumbledore with narrowed eyes. "Explain."

"Just this—now that Voldemort has returned and has continued to show an unhealthy interest in Harry, it is in Harry's best interests that he be protected. No offense to Madam Maxine, but I do not think Harry would be adequately protected at Beauxbatons. It is largely due to Voldemort's respect for and fear of _me_, that Harry would be safer attending Hogwarts, and by extension, Fleur would also be safer there, as she is now known to have a connection with Mr. Potter, and could be used against him."

"I cannot dispute that," said Jean-Sebastian after a moment. Then a sly look came over his face as he continued, "One might think you are attempting to boast with a statement like that, Dumbledore."

"Certainly not," an amused Dumbledore brushed the comment off, but not without the ever-present twinkling of his eyes. "It _is_ the truth, however—as long as Harry is at Hogwarts while I am there, I do not think Voldemort will attempt anything overt, unless he feels that he will be assured of victory.

"We all know that Harry is Fudge's target," Dumbledore continued candidly. "His failure to discredit Harry during the trial has merely prompted him to change his tactics. However, I believe that I am as much of a target, and that Harry's friends will not be spared either. Therefore, we must make plans to counter the Undersecretary's intentions, and eventually to expose them for what they are, and I will need their help—specifically Harry's—to do that."

"What do I need to do, professor?" Harry asked. He was not about to stand by and listen to the adults discuss the situation—he had been a passive observer far too often in the past, and had ended up acting on impulse at the last moment. He would take a more active role in events.

Dumbledore inclined his head in Harry's direction. "I simply need you to be yourself and to be on your best behavior. During the trial, Umbridge and Fudge attempted to brand you as a troublemaker who seeks to be in the limelight. I do not doubt that Umbridge will attempt to provoke you in some manner; you must resist responding while we work out a way to turn the tables on her and the Minister. Our response will largely be dependent upon Umbridge's actions after you arrive at Hogwarts."

"And what of Fleur?" Apolline demanded. "That woman will take every opportunity to goad and demean Fleur, if she does not openly attack her."

"Mrs. Delacour, I assure you that I will do everything in my power to protect your daughter. I doubt that Madam Umbridge will attempt anything blatant, at least in the short term."

"Maman, I can protect myself," Fleur said, attempting to reassure her mother. "I will have Harry and our other friends with me—she can do nothing."

"You will, Miss Delacour, and I assure you that there is no more loyal friend than Mr. Potter."

Harry blushed immediately at the Headmaster's praise, but he shyly looked at his betrothed and assured her that he would be there for her. Fleur glanced back at him with a large smile upon her face, but she said nothing—for which Harry was grateful.

In an attempt to change the subject—and be relieved from his embarrassment—Harry asked who exactly Umbridge was.

"Do you remember the woman in pink who supported Fudge at your trial?" At Harry's nod, Jean-Sebastian continued. "Dolores Umbridge is a well-known bigot and proponent of anything which she considers helpful in controlling _creatures_. Her definition of creatures includes just about anything which is not British and Pureblood."

Harry thought for a moment before a thought occurred to him and he allowed a mischievous smile to appear on his face. "She may be vile, but after facing Voldemort himself four times, I hardly think a pudgy, pink, toad woman is anything to be afraid of."

His jest broke the tension in the room, as he had intended, and the company broke into laughter. It was clear that the Delacours—especially Apolline—were still not happy with this development, nor were they pleased with the lack of a concrete plan to counter whatever Umbridge had planned for their children. However, it was also clear that without knowing the precise nature of what the woman wished to accomplish—other than the discrediting of both Dumbledore and Harry, a matter which was now much more difficult due to the thorough routing she and Fudge had experienced at the trial—countering her actions was problematic. But, as Hermione pointed out, echoing Dumbledore's earlier words, they would all have the support of the group which had developed over the summer, and that Fleur would have, at the very least, the support of the Weasley twins in Defense class, as they were in the same year. Harry had no doubt that the rest of the Gryffindor seventh years—especially those on the Quidditch team who he knew well—would also accept Fleur with very little hesitation.

At length the discussion wound up and after the Headmaster requested that Harry make sure his friends were aware of the appointment and to be on their best behavior, he departed, leaving Harry once again to his thoughts. He knew that Umbridge was coming to the school to cause trouble for him, but somehow the thought did not bother him. They had had challenges throughout their time at Hogwarts, after all, and they would face and overcome this one as they had all the others.

No, it was his friends—and his betrothed—who caused him greater concern. They would be targets in order to get at him. He was determined to protect them—_no one _would hurt his friends to get at him!

* * *

The day before their return to Hogwarts, Hermione had a visitor.

She had left the breakfast room, and had returned to her own room to mull over the changes this summer had wrought in her relationships and in the lives of her friends. It had been eventful and, but for the quick action of her closest friend and the timely intervention of some adults, the outcome may very well have been tragic. But what was done was done, after all, and she supposed there was no sense in belaboring the issue.

The residents of the manor were due to depart for Diagon Alley that morning to purchase the final supplies for the students' return to school, and Hermione was looking forward to the trip. She knew her friends would tease her for her excitement, but she had always enjoyed the excursion—returning to school had always been an exciting time for Hermione, and the opportunity to learn, not to mention the chance to browse through Flourish and Blotts and purchase more books, was something which had always given her great pleasure.

_Oh yes,_ she reflected, _Harry and Fleur would certainly tease me about my book habits._

Especially Harry, knowing her best out of all her friends as he did, though his teasing would be gentle and playful, not the mean-spirited and spiteful bullying she had endured as a young child. Harry would never hurt her—not intentionally, anyway.

When the knock sounded on the door, she called out permission, and was unsurprised to see Fleur step in through the door. In addition to being intelligent, Hermione was also highly observant, and she had not missed the serious glances Fleur had been directing at her, not only since the announcement of her betrothal had been made, but especially in the past few days. She knew that Fleur would have witnessed the close camaraderie which existed between herself and her best friend, if she had not already heard of their friendship while at Hogwarts the previous year. Hermione had been expecting for some time now to have to reassure her best friend's betrothed of the exact state of their relationship.

Hermione smiled and invited Fleur to seat herself on the edge of the bed. To be honest, Hermione was not certain why the blond witch would be concerned—she _was_ beautiful, after all, and had far more than her share of attributes to keep the attention of any young man. Hermione, though her confidence had been growing, still thought of herself as a mousy little bookworm. What could Fleur possibly have to worry about?

Shaking her head at such thoughts, Hermione concentrated on her friend. They exchanged small talk for several moments, and Hermione noted with amusement Fleur's attempts to keep the conversation light-hearted and friendly. But Hermione had come to know her in the time they had spent together and was aware that something was bothering her. The French witch, though she generally had good English pronunciation—much better than she had shown at the tournament—had a habit of slipping into a much more noticeable French accent when she was nervous or excited. And as excitement was not evident in her manner, Hermione could only conclude that Fleur was nervous about something.

"Hermione, I wanted to ask you something," Fleur finally said after their conversation had gone on for some moments.

"Of course," was Hermione's answer.

Fleur fidgeted for a moment longer before visibly screwing up her courage and looking Hermione directly in the eye. "I wanted to know more of your relationship with Harry. What are your feelings for Harry?"

Smiling at the fact that she had read her friend so well, Hermione immediately thought to reassure her friend. "Harry and I are the best of friends."

"And?"

"Like I said, Fleur—we are _best friends,_" Hermione repeated, emphasizing the words. "We are extremely close and I would do anything for Harry—I know he'd do anything for me too. But there is _nothing_ more than that. We're completely platonic Fleur—we've always been like siblings."

Fleur actually snorted at that declaration, causing Hermione to narrow her eyes at her friend. But before she could respond, Fleur had already spoken.

"Hermione," she said gently, while reaching over to pat Hermione's hand, "perhaps you are not aware of the specific powers of Veela, but I know that you are not telling me the truth. Whether you are lying to yourself or me matters little—but I want you to truly search your feelings and be as candid as you possibly can. It is very important.

"Most of the wizarding world considers Veela to be purely sexual beings, but I can tell you that our magic is actually highly in tune with the power of love. I can feel the connection between you and Harry, Hermione, and there is no denying it. Please be truthful."

Throughout Fleur's speech, Hermione felt her horror and mortification building to almost unbearable levels. Fleur knew her secret! How would she ever live it down? How would she even get the other girl to ever trust her again? She knew she was caught—only the truth would get her out of her predicament.

"I do have feelings for Harry," Hermione acknowledged while hanging her head in shame. "I didn't realize it until this summer after he was already betrothed to you, but I do care for him.

"But Fleur," she pleaded, "you have to believe me—I told you that our relationship is completely platonic, and I swear that's all that it has ever been. We have never been anything but the best of friends to each other. Harry has never seen me that way, and I doubt he ever will—I've always been nothing more than a sister to him."

The last was said slightly bitterly as, though Hermione wanted the best for her friend and truly wished to set Fleur's mind at ease, she _did_ wish that Harry could have seen her as more than simply one of the guys.

She was thus startled out of her morose thoughts when Fleur let out a snort, and descended into laughter. "You know," she managed in her mirth, "you English have a saying which fits the situation perfectly: 'Love is blind.'"

"What are you saying?" demanded Hermione with a frown.

Still chuckling to herself, Fleur scooted over on the bed and draped an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "Hermione, you are just about the brightest person I have ever known, but when it comes to Harry, you have a blind spot the size of an acromantula. You think Harry will never have any feelings for you? Well I can tell you that he does not see you as merely a _sister_."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Fleur and pulled away from her. "He's never given any indication of it."

"Teenager? Male? Clueless?"

Fleur's irreverent portrayal of Harry sent Hermione into her own spasm of giggles. She swatted at Fleur while trying to affect a stern expression. "Fleur! Harry's not _that_ bad."

"He's not? He said those very words to me, you know."

_That_ got Hermione's attention. "You asked _him_ about _me?_"

"Not exactly," Fleur said in a soothing tone. "We were talking about you, but I only asked him why he didn't take you to the Yule Ball if he didn't have a girlfriend and he thought as highly of you as he obviously does. That was his response."

Hermione chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. "Did he say anything else?"

"He didn't need to, Hermione. I can sense his emotions, whether he admits them to himself or not."

If anything, the confirmation of Harry's feelings—or at least Fleur's assertion of them—was almost more painful than the suspicion of their existence. It made her think of all the time they had spent together in the past, and the attraction which she had felt steadily growing, almost literally since the first time she had met him. She had known to a certain extent that Harry was not comfortable in expressing his emotions, certainly due in part to the way he had been treated by his relatives, but also because he simply was not an overly demonstrative person. Perhaps if she had taken the initiative and shown him how interested she was…

But no—if anything that would have made things even worse. If they _had _drawn closer in the way she had hoped, the enactment of that marriage contract would have torn him from her, in an even more painful way. Since the announcement, Hermione had done her best to accept the situation as there was nothing she could do about it, but she was never as inclined to curse his betrothal as she was at that moment.

But it was what it was, and there _was_ nothing she could do about it—she would not lose a friend with whom she had become very close, or risk Fleur telling her that she could not see Harry at all any longer. His friendship mattered too much to her for her to consider that, even if she would never be allowed to become anything more to him.

"Be that as it may, it changes nothing," Hermione asserted. "Whatever Harry feels for me, he is far too noble to ever betray you like that. And you have nothing to worry about from me, Fleur. I—"

Hermione's throat constricted and she felt a hitch in her voice and the beginnings of tears forming in her eyes. Ruthlessly she forced herself to regain her composure and face her friend, who she noted was regarding her with a look of compassion.

"I _have realized_ that I have feelings for Harry, much as I would like to deny them. However, I would never dream of interfering in your relationship with him, and I know that you two will do well together. Trust me, Fleur—Harry's heart is so big and you are such a wonderful person, that I have no doubt that he will get over whatever feelings he has for me, and grow to love you in time."

"Thank you, Hermione," said Fleur. "I am truly grateful that I have gained you and Harry for friends—in my past, close friends have been difficult to obtain, much less keep. However, I'd like to take this discussion a little further."

Hermione frowned—Fleur's tone was completely calm, and she did not appear to be angry or even concerned with the fact that a female friend had just admitted to having feelings for her fiancé. What was she thinking?

"I'm not sure there's anything more to talk about."

"Indulge me, please," responded Fleur with a smile. "I'd like to know how much you know about wizarding marriage laws in this country. In fact, customs in the wizarding world are so old-fashioned, that I think you'll find little in the way of difference between the laws of any of the western European countries."

Cautiously, Hermione stared back at her friend. Fleur could not be speaking of the potential for Harry to have multiple wives, could she?

"Hermione," Fleur said with a great deal affection, "are you aware that Harry is not confined to only me as his wife? He has the ability to take another wife, as long as I approve."

Shocked that she had guessed Fleur's intent, Hermione gaped at her friend. "Fleur!" she stammered. "Are you suggesting…? You would actually consider _sharing_ Harry with someone else?"

She conveniently ignored the fact that Fleur had not only suggested exactly that, but that she had suggested that she would share Harry with _her_.

"Ah, so you are aware."

"I have heard that, yes," Hermione snapped. "You didn't answer my question."

"Let me guess—it was Ginevra Weasley who told you. Am I right?"

"What does that have to do with it?" demanded Hermione.

"Nothing," Fleur admitted. "But she may as well forget it—if I were to approve of a second wife, it certainly would not be _her_."

The conversation was going off track, and Hermione was becoming frustrated with her friend. However, drawing upon her admittedly small well of patience, Hermione fixed her eye upon Fleur and defended her _other_ friend.

"Ginny isn't a bad person, Fleur."

"No, but she _is_ a bit of a fan-girl. You, of all people, should know how much Harry hates his fame."

"I do, but Ginny is changing. When we spoke, I told her that she'd best try to be his friend, rather than attempting to be his second wife."

Fleur snorted. "Good advice."

"You still didn't answer my question, Fleur."

"And I still won't," the French witch responded with what Hermione considered to be an absolutely infuriating smirk. "First, though I admit I'm already getting an idea of your opinion on the subject, can you tell me if _you_ would consider sharing Harry with me?"

With narrowed eyes, Hermione glared at Fleur, before deciding that she would have her questions answered a lot more quickly if she gave in.

"To be completely honest, Fleur, I don't know," Hermione admitted. "I mean, if I was enough in love with someone, I _suppose_ it may be possible to share him with someone else, but I can't really say until I was in that position. I was raised to believe that such relationships are wrong, after all.

"Now, will _you_ answer _my_ question?"

The accompanying glare which Hermione directed at Fleur had apparently struck the French witch as amusing, as she started laughing immediately. Still somewhat put out with Fleur, Hermione snapped, "Fleur, can you _please_ be serious?"

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Fleur said as her giggles faded away, to be replaced with a sober expression which was completely incongruous with her previously jocular attitude. "You must understand that this is difficult for me as well, and I suppose my mirth is my way of dealing with the stress."

Realizing at once that the older witch was not making fun of her, Hermione reached out and patted her hand. "I'm not sure why we're having this conversation in the first place, Fleur. You have just become betrothed to Harry, and you're already trying to find a second wife for him? Perhaps you should try becoming comfortable with him first."

"Perhaps," said Fleur with a sigh. "But everything I sense tells me a different story, Hermione. I believe you have some very deep feelings for Harry, and if I'm right, then separating you—even though the fault belongs to neither of us—would be a mistake."

"But I'm still only fifteen years old, Fleur!" Hermione said with exasperation. "I'm a little young to have found the only man I'll ever love."

Hermione words were filled with sarcasm, and she fully intended to communicate to her friend the fact that she was still young and had plenty of time to find someone else. Unfortunately, the French witch's next words showed that she had not taken them in the way Hermione had intended.

"Perhaps not, Hermione. But there is nothing to say that you _haven't_ found a life long love either. Yes, people develop emotionally and physically as we age, but there is nothing to say that the feelings of love one feels when young aren't as valid as though you had felt those emotions as an adult. Harry has an amazing capacity for love, Hermione, and everything I can sense from you both suggests that you are completely compatible, and already share a great depth of emotion.

"And I should inform you that I'm not the only one who has noted your closeness and compatibility. My mother has noticed as well, and confirms my observations—you and Harry are almost perfectly suited for one another. You would both be fools to throw the possibility of a relationship away."

On one level, Hermione could not believe what her friend was suggesting. Fleur already had Harry sewn up, as it were—they were both bound by the contract her father and Sirius had enacted. Perhaps if she was trying to snare him and knew the only way to gain his interest was as part of a package deal, as it were, this discussion might make a little more sense. But then in that case, Hermione would by default hold the upper hand and would have little incentive to share him with Fleur. Surely there was more to this than Fleur simply believing that Harry and Hermione had feelings for each other.

"Fleur, would you please answer my question now?" Hermione queried. "You have asked me if I'd be willing to share Harry, and the line of discussion seems to suggest that you'd be willing to share him, but I haven't actually heard your feelings on the subject."

Fleur sighed and looked away. "Hermione, you must know that Veela have been prized in the past as mistresses or second wives—it's part of my heritage."

"And you are still avoiding my question," said Hermione with some exasperation. "That is all in the past, Fleur—though, as you pointed out the wizarding world is far behind the Muggle world socially, I'm certain that it has come far enough that you would not have to worry about being forced into that type of relationship. Will you not tell me why you are bringing this up, and what your feelings are on the subject? Do you _really_ want to share Harry with me?"

Though the French witch kept her head bowed as she thought, Hermione could tell that she was considering her answer carefully. She wrung her hands together lightly and shook her head almost imperceptibly as the silence wore on. Though she was obviously agitated to a certain extent, Hermione did not interrupt her, knowing that she needed an answer from her friend.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, but also firm and confident. "To be honest with you, Hermione, I never expected to be in such a situation. I understand the history of my heritage, but I have always intended to find a husband who would love only me, and I him. I think I've found a man I can love. Harry and I are very compatible—in a different way from you and him of course, but compatible nonetheless."

"Then why are we having this conversation?" asked Hermione gently. "You _have_ him, Fleur. By the terms of that contract he is _yours!_ As you said, Harry has a great capacity to love others, and if you're as compatible as you seem to think, he will come to love you in no time. There is no reason for us to even discuss this."

A sigh was Fleur's response. "Perhaps you are right, but there is more at stake here than simply my own desires. Yes, I want to be happy in my life, but I also want Harry to be happy, and I cannot shake the feeling that Harry's happiness depends at least in part on you. _You_ are his first love—his true love. I do not want him to come to resent me for keeping him from you."

Hermione could not help but be touched by Fleur's selflessness and care for Harry. "Fleur, I really don't think Harry would do that, though I am happy that you care for my best friend as much as you do."

"I _do_ care for Harry very much, though I still do not know him well in many respects. However, there is still more at stake than simply Harry's happiness. I assume, given your penchant for research, that you have acquired some knowledge of Veela traits and characteristics."

Blushing, Hermione acknowledged that she had, reflecting somewhat ruefully that her reputation had preceded her—either that or her friend was getting to know her _very_ well already. "But there wasn't a lot of information that I could find in any of my books. I thought I would look for some more information when we go to Flourish and Blotts today."

Fleur sniffed in disdain. "_Here_, the only place you would find any information at all, would be in a book of _magical creatures_, and even then, it would likely be incomplete or wrong altogether. There is more accurate information available on the continent since there are many more Veela there—especially in France. To save time, I shall tell you.

"Veela are essentially humans with special characteristics, but when we have children we always breed true."

Thinking it through, Hermione considered what she knew of Veela. She had precious little experience with them—limited to Fleur and her sister, and the Veela at the world cup the previous year. And though the information she had been able to find was scarce, she had noted that there was a lack of any mention of male Veela. That would suggest…

"So Veela are always female?" she asked out loud. "And any male children of Veela are just ordinary boys?"

"I thought you would figure it out," said Fleur with a nod of approval. "You are correct—any female children I have will be Veela, while any males will be normal human men, though they likely will be quite attractive.

"However, there is another point that is very important to the present discussion. Veela women have great difficulty getting pregnant—a Veela with more than two children is a rarity, and only one child is not uncommon. Even more importantly, more than ninety percent of all children born to Veela are girls."

"And Harry is the last of his line…" breathed Hermione, seeing the dilemma immediately.

"Exactly. If I am Harry's only wife, the chances are very good that the name Potter will die with him, which is one of the reasons why I am bringing this up—if he must have a second wife to carry on his name, why not a woman he already loves? If you were to become romantically linked to him in addition to me, there would be less jockeying for position by other ladies looking to snag themselves a piece of the Boy-Who-Lived. Believe me, there are plenty of Pureblood families out there who are not aligned with Voldemort, but who are knowledgeable enough about Veela—or have contacts on the continent who could divulge this information—who would believe that they would benefit by an alliance with House Potter. I doubt Harry could do better than you—you are loyal, brave, incredibly intelligent, and he is obviously attracted to you, not to mention that you know Harry the young man, and do not idolize Harry the legend. I consider you perfect for him, beyond your obvious compatibility."

It all made sense, Hermione had to admit. Fleur's arguments were logical and well thought out, and though she was raised in a non-magical home and therefore did not consider the lack of a male heir to be an issue—_she_ was her parents only child, after all—she did know that in magical society it was a _very big deal_ in many respects.

It all boiled down to whether she could share a husband with another woman; know that a piece of his heart and body was owned by someone else. Could she do it? At the moment, she knew herself well enough to know that she could not answer that question truthfully—she would need a considerable amount of time to think about such a momentous decision.

Then there was the question of her parents—what would they have to say about her marrying a man who had more than one wife? Her parents were not devout Christians by any means—they tended to be Christmas and Easter Anglicans more than anything else, observing the traditions during those special times, and then ignoring religion for the rest of the year. However, they _had_ been raised in Western society where plural marriage was considered to be immoral. She could not truthfully predict what their reaction would be, but she knew that they would not be completely happy at the very least. Ultimately, they would likely accept it, much as they had finally accepted the fact that she was a witch. Even more frightening was the fact that she had felt herself slipping away from her parents over the years by the simple fact that she _was_ a witch—this was just another thing which would potentially drive the wedge between them even deeper.

"Your arguments do make sense," she said at last, speaking very slowly, while taking her time to think of her words and determine exactly what she wished to say. "I do understand, Fleur, but while part of me wants to jump at the chance, there are things which are holding me back."

Fleur regarded her compassionately, and when she spoke, her voice was very soft and affectionate. "Hermione, I'm not asking you to commit to a lifetime with Harry at this very moment. You _are_ still very young as you pointed out and it is still very early for you to be making such an important decision in your life.

"But I did not wish to put off the conversation for two reasons: the first, is that I want you to think about it. Regardless of what my senses tell me, there is no guarantee that you and Harry would have decided to be together even if I was not a part of the equation. Veela powers only tell us certain things, and do not give us clairvoyance, or take into account another's free will. My betrothal to Harry obviously complicates a potential romantic relationship with him. I understand your hesitation and want you to have plenty of time to think about it before you make a decision.

"The second reason is that I wanted to prevent you from making a mistake and settling for someone who is wholly unsuited to you in your sorrow over 'losing' Harry. _That _would make you miserable, and I like you far too much for you to waste your life in that manner."

Though Fleur did not name any names, Hermione knew that she was speaking of Ron and truthfully, she could not say that Fleur was wrong. Hermione truly _did_ like Ron. Most of the time, he was a good and loyal friend, and even when he did allow his jealousy to get the better of him, he could be counted on to come around eventually.

But Hermione also knew that regardless of whatever feelings Ron had for her, a romantic relationship between them would never last. Their bickering, divergent goals and priorities, and completely opposite personalities would be a recipe for disaster. Fleur's words, if nothing else, further clarified this in her mind—she and Ron as a couple would _never_ happen.

"I understand," was what she said out loud. "I will think about it."

"That is all I can ask."

* * *

_Updated 05/22/2013  
_


	12. Chapter 11 – New Friends and Old Enemies

**Chapter 11 – New Friends and Old Enemies**

The Hogwarts Express. To generations of Hogwarts students, the big, red engine had symbolized new beginnings, adventure, and the return to the venerable and distinguished institution, one, which Jean-Sebastian Delacour had to admit, rivaled and surpassed even that of the beloved school of his youth.

There was also, he supposed, a sort of conceited arrogance about the old engine, especially in its location. Hidden away in one of the busiest stations in the country, the platform and the entire railway line up to the magical town in Scotland was almost a physical manifestation of the Wizarding world thumbing its nose at the Muggle world—in essence it was a sneering example of what wizards could do under the very noses of the Muggles, an example of what their magic could accomplish and how there was nothing the Muggles could do to stop them.

In an age where almost instantaneous travel could be initiated by those in the Wizarding world, the Express was a lasting image to the British magical public, not to mention a leftover anachronism to a world which had largely progressed passed the point of needing it. Beauxbatons, for example, had a large Floo reception area in its main hall where the students would arrive on the first day of classes, and subsequently return home on the days when school was let out. Of course, as it would be inadvisable at best to allow young school students access to an instantaneous method of travelling, the Floo connections were shut down for the bulk of the school year, and all travel through them was heavily supervised by the staff when they were open.

However, knowing as he did the importance of symbols in everyday life, Jean-Sebastian supposed that maintaining the Express was a worthwhile endeavor—not all traditions became defunct simply because a better way had been developed. And looking at the excitement on the faces of the assembled students told him that _they_ at least did not consider the Express to be redundant.

Of course, the one part of the Express with which Jean-Sebastian was _not_ enamored, was the fact that the students spent several hours travelling between London and Hogsmeade with very little supervision outside that of the student leaders themselves. And given what Harry had told him about some of the goings on during the journey—specifically those involving the confrontations with the Malfoy scion which appeared to happen every time they travelled to or from the school—Jean-Sebastian could not be entirely comfortable.

_Still, the children are very capable and responsible, _he mused to himself. _The Malfoy boy may be a bit of a hothead, but Harry, especially with Fleur's backing, can certainly handle him. The way I understand it, he's been handling the boy for years._

The thought was comforting—Fleur, despite what the British wizards generally thought was her failure at the Triwizard, was a supremely capable and powerful witch. They would have each other—not to mention their friends—to provide support and protection. The power and capacity of a talented, determined and united group of friends could not be underestimated.

As they stepped through the barrier, the three teens made their way to the train and settled their belongings into a compartment before rejoining the three Delacours who were not leaving for Hogwarts—Gabrielle was still a little upset that she _would not_ be accompanying her sister and her hero on their adventure—to say their final goodbyes.

"Neville! Luna!" Harry exclaimed as they stepped down from the train coach.

The two friends arrived and were greeted warmly by the party, though the greetings were a little understated; they had only parted two days earlier, after all.

Once the greetings had been completed, the two new arrivals boarded the train to leave their belongings in the compartment their three friends had already secured.

"Harry, where are the Weasleys?" Fleur suddenly asked, while peering around the platform.

Clearly amused, Hermione and Harry shared a glance. Then Harry looked at his watch—a clearly exaggerated gesture—before returning his gaze to Fleur and meeting her eyes with a look of mischief.

"They should be showing up about ten minutes from now."

Perplexed, Fleur glanced down at her own watch. "But the express will depart in ten minutes."

By now the two best friends were sniggering under their breaths, causing Fleur no small amount of exasperation, Jean-Sebastian noted.

"Fleur, the Weasleys are known for being a little tardy," said Harry between laughs.

"They'll come bustling in just before the train departs," added Hermione. "They do this every year—everyone who has ridden the train since Bill started school knows about them and looks forward to the show."

The three shared a laugh, after which Harry launched into the story of how they arrived at the last moment for his second year, and how he and Ron had found the portal closed to them. But as amusing as the story was, Jean-Sebastian found his mind wandering. As he had already told himself, they were extremely capable young people, but he could not help but worry, especially with Umbridge in residence at the venerable castle. He did not doubt that the woman would seize the first opportunity to spew her vitriol at his eldest daughter.

Jean-Sebastian scowled at the thought—he would have the woman's head if she behaved with anything other than the most professional conduct.

The group's discussions were interrupted by the train's whistle, signaling that the departure was five minutes away. Immediately hugs were exchanged, farewells spoken, and Jean-Sebastian took the opportunity for a last piece of instruction for the departing teens.

"Have a good time at school," he admonished. "And remember—if Umbridge should try anything at all, speak with your Headmaster. You can contact me for anything, and I will give you whatever help you require."

Fleur stepped over to hug him and say her farewells. Jean-Sebastian enveloped her in his arms, reflecting that this was the last time that she would be leaving for school—after this year, she would have graduated, and be ready to enter the larger adult world. A lump formed in his throat as he retreated to arm's length and gazed into the face of his beautiful daughter.

"I am very proud of you, Fleur," he said through slightly misty eyes.

"Thank you, Papa," was her response.

She paused for a moment before she spoke again. "I want you to know that I am very pleased with my situation, Papa. I was a little upset about the betrothal—since you never even saw fit to inform me of its existence! I was worried it would not work out. But I think it has all been for the best. I think I will be very happy with Harry."

Jean-Sebastian's smile was one of relief. He had wrestled with the decision for some time, not wishing to take his beloved daughter's chance at happiness away, before he had finally determined to enact the marriage contract. The fact that everything he had heard about Harry was positive had been a great relief, as he felt the young man would treat Fleur well. But that did not guarantee her happiness. That she was getting along with the young man so well was exactly what he wished to hear.

"I am glad to hear it," he finally answered. "I too think you will do well together. Just remember to confide in one another; look out for one another—it will draw you closer together, and make your transition even easier."

"We _both_ will, Papa. Harry is very protective of his friends, and I know that he will be watching out for me as much as I will be for him."

Jean-Sebastian separated from his daughter, and once the general goodbyes had been said, the three teenagers boarded the train. Jean-Sebastian was amused as the prediction regarding the Weasleys proved true, as moments before the train began the long journey, the family scurried onto the platform and the four youngest instantly ran for the train. He shared an amused glance with Fleur through the window, as the train gave a lurch, and slowly began to move down the tracks.

"Is it just me, or has this year been the hardest to let go of her?" Apolline asked as they waved farewell to the children.

"It's her last year of school," was Jean-Sebastian's simple reply. "This time next year she will be looking for a job. She's all grown up."

"That makes me feel so _old!_"

Amused, Jean-Sebastian put his arm around his wife's shoulders. "My dear, you are still every bit as beautiful today as you were the day I first saw you. And we are not so very old yet, you know."

"We are not so very young, either," came the grumpy voice of his wife. "A daughter all grown." She looked down at her younger daughter, who was peering up at her parents with a quizzical expression on her face. "And this little one will be following in her sister's footsteps before long," she continued with a smile and a hug for Gabrielle."

"So she will," Jean-Sebastian agreed, as he steered his wife and daughter from the platform. "But not today."

* * *

"How long does it take to get to Hogsmeade, Harry?"

"About eight hours, give or take," was Harry's reply.

Harry regarded his new betrothed with a hint of a mile evident on his face. Fleur's demeanor reminded him of himself on his first journey to Hogwarts—excited and thrilled at the new experience, yet with a hint of trepidation at the unknown.

Of course Fleur had been to Hogwarts before—she had spent most of the previous year at the school, after all. However, this was different. It was the first time she had ridden the express for one thing. Perhaps it was more mundane than the method she had used the previous year—it was difficult to top a journey made in some fancy Cinderella carriage pulled by flying horses—but the journey via the express was a magical experience in its own right. Most importantly, however, she was returning to Hogwarts as a student, not a visitor, and that made all the difference for the young woman.

Harry was well aware of her insecurities—they had talked enough for him to understand them, regardless of the fact that she had never openly declared what was worrying her. But he knew that she fretted that her experience at Hogwarts would end up much the same way as it had at Beauxbatons: plenty of acquaintances, but no close friends. She feared that she would forever be set apart by her heritage.

She need not have worried, as Harry was certain nothing could be further from the truth. For starters, Harry would be by her side, and he knew that his friends would accept her for the simple fact that _he _did. That by itself should be recommendation enough for her to form friendships of her own. In addition, she had already made the acquaintance of several of her fellow students, and the Weasley twins were in her year as well, and should smooth her transition and help her gain acceptance of the others in their year.

The only concern was where she would end up sorted—thus far Professor Dumbledore had not made any mention of how or when she would be placed in a house. Even so Harry was certain she would end up with him in Gryffindor, though he knew she would do well in Ravenclaw, with her intelligence. Gryffindor, however, made the most sense, as there she would find greater acceptance than anywhere else.

The conversation for the first part of the journey was pleasant and animated. Ron and Ginny had joined them in their compartment, along with Luna and Neville, and though it made for a slightly cramped compartment, the company was good, and none of the friends saw fit to complain. The Weasley twins had stopped in to say hello as the train left, but they immediately left to search for their partner in crime, Lee Jordan, no doubt discussing the mayhem they were likely to create in this their final year at the school. Harry did not doubt that whatever they had in mind, it would not be dull!

About a half hour into the journey, the party was interrupted by the train's loudspeaker.

"Your attention please: All prefects will now assemble in the prefects' car for the prefects' meeting."

As the only two prefects in the compartment, Harry and Hermione immediately grabbed their school robes.

"You know, I've always wondered how the loudspeaker works, when wizards don't know about Muggle electronics, much less have the ability or interest to make them," Harry said absently as he pulled his robes on over his head.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You'd know if you had taken Runes, Harry."

"It's all done with Runes?"

"It's like the lights and other devices you saw at my home, Harry," Fleur chimed in. "The microphone they are using has a modified _Sonorus_ charm which instead of amplifying the sound, transmits it to a set of similar runes in each compartment. Those runes then amplify the sound."

"That's pretty ingenious," said Harry after a moment's thought.

Fleur smiled. "Thank you, Harry. The Muggles do have some marvelous things, but I dare say the magical world has its share of innovations."

"Sounds interesting." Harry then turned to Hermione who was busily tying her hair up in a French braid. "I never knew runes were so versatile. Do you feel like tutoring me this year?"

Startled, Hermione's hands stilled in the middle of her efforts and she peered at him with some disbelief. "You actually want to learn Runes?"

"Yeah mate," Ron chimed in. "Why would you want to torture yourself with more studying, Harry? We're already taking a couple of electives."

"Two electives we chose specifically because we thought they were easy," said Harry with a roll of his eyes.

"And what's wrong with that?" Ron demanded.

"Nothing at all, Ron, if that's what you want to do. For myself, I figure I've skived off a little too much—I've got an insane madman after me, and I doubt he'll want to play Quidditch to the death when we finally meet."

The comment prompted giggles from his companions, though Ron appeared to be alternating between amusement at the thought, and indignation at the way Harry spoke of his favorite sport.

"I think I need to be a little more studious and serious, Ron," said Harry, hoping to avoid offending Ron with his conciliatory words. "Otherwise, I'll never be ready to face him. I know he's coming after me. He won't stop until one of us is gone—of that I am certain."

"And you think Runes is going to help?"

Ron's voice held a certain amount of sarcasm, prompting Harry to consciously hold his temper in. This was Ron, after all, and though he was smart enough and was a good friend, studious he would never be. The important thing right now, was to make certain Ron did not say anything to upset Hermione like he was prone to at times like these—he was working up to a comment about how he preferred that his best friend not become like the resident bookworm, if Harry were to guess.

"Not Runes, specifically," Harry admitted. "But I think a little extra effort in general would be good, and like I said—it sounds interesting.

"Well, how about it?" he continued, turning to Hermione.

Though her expression was suspicious, Hermione appeared pleased at Harry's interest. "Sure Harry, if you'd like."

"I promise, Hermione."

Hermione responded to his grin in like manner before she became all business. "We better go, Harry."

Nodding, Harry followed her from the compartment.

The prefects' meeting was not exactly what Harry would call scintillating—but then again, he supposed it wasn't supposed to be. It _was_ important, however, and Harry paid close attention to the instructions given by the head students—Roger Davies from Ravenclaw, who he remembered was Fleur's date from the Yule Ball, and Samantha Dewhurst, a pretty blond from Hufflepuff. The fact that Hermione was listening intently was not a surprise—Harry fully expected her to take her duties as seriously as she did anything else. Knowing she expected the same from him, and wanting to live up to his newfound maturity, Harry was determined to emulate her.

Unfortunately, he found upon entering the car that Malfoy had also been made a prefect. It was not exactly a surprise, though, considering just how much Snape favored the blond ponce. He said nothing throughout the whole of the meeting, yet his smirk at both Harry, and sometimes Hermione, seemed to suggest that he knew something which they did not. Harry ignored him—it was either that, or hex the Death Eater spawn to oblivion, and he did not think the head students would appreciate the disruption to their meeting, not to mention the mess to clean up after.

Suppressing a laugh at the image, Harry returned Malfoy's smirk in an even more insolent manner, allowing it to become wider when the other boy's countenance darkened. He then decided he had had enough fun antagonizing the little git, and focused his attention back on the meeting.

As luck would have it, the Gryffindor prefects were assigned the first patrols from junior to senior, meaning that Harry and Hermione would have the first patrol. They left the compartment, ignoring Malfoy's glare, and made their way to the front of the train where they would start their patrol. It too was somewhat uneventful as, other than admonishing a couple of first years to stop horsing around, they could find nothing else wrong. The other students were either too well behaved, or too adept at hiding what they were doing to be caught.

They made their way back to their compartment after their patrol was complete, and the rest of the trip passed uneventfully until they were nearing their destination.

No trip on the Express could truly be complete, Harry reflected, without a visit from Malfoy and cronies. This year's version happened during the last ninety minutes of the journey, and as the Slytherins had been assigned the final patrol slots, Harry suspected that the blond git had timed his appearance during his own patrol rounds, so as not to be caught by any of the other prefects, not that any of the other Slytherins would do much more than cheer him on.

Harry had just begun a discussion with Ron about the upcoming Quidditch Cup, when the doors to the compartment snapped open, and Malfoy walked in, his face stretched in a most unpleasant grin. He was flanked, as always, by his faithful bodyguards. Out in the hallway, Pansy Parkinson looked on with a superior smirk on her face.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Potty and his merry band of misfits," said Malfoy with a sneer.

"Ah, now all is right with the world again," Harry returned. "It wouldn't truly seem right to go all the way to Hogsmeade without a visit from the Ferret and the Gorillas, with the Pug tagging along for good measure. What is this—has the zoo been allowed on the Express when I wasn't looking?"

Everyone in the compartment laughed, with the exception of the Slytherins. Crabbe and Goyle appeared confused, while Parkinson and Malfoy flushed in anger, though neither deigned to respond. He only stuck his nose higher in the air. "I certainly couldn't have missed the lot of you—the stench of lesser beings was evident from the moment we entered the car."

Letting out a longsuffering sigh, Harry affixed an unfriendly eye upon the Malfoy heir. "Ferret, did you know that 'Malfoy' in French means bad faith? Do you think that some event in your family's background caused you to be saddled with that unfortunate moniker? Although, I must admit—it does fit you rather well…"

His face almost purple with rage, Malfoy took what he probably thought was a menacing step forward. "You filthy Halfblood! How dare you insult a Pureblood of my standing and pedigree?"

"Ferret, your family was still herding sheep in France when my family had been established as a leading family in England centuries earlier. That's the reason why your criminal father doesn't have a Wizengamot seat—he's still considered an outsider by British Pureblood standards."

Harry smiled at Malfoy's rage, thanking Sirius for his brief lessons on the history of the leading English magical families. Malfoy may not know it, but the only reason his father had any influence at all was because of his money, and the fear his support for Voldemort engendered.

It was truly amusing to see the little git stew in his own juices, his mouth working ineffectually, but Harry was becoming rather tired of the confrontation and wanted to enjoy the rest of the trip in peace. "You know, Bad Faith," Harry continued conversationally after a few moments, "every year you strut in here like you own the place, leading these two brainless baboons around by the nose, and every year you end up fleeing the scene with your tail between your legs. Why don't you do us both a favor, save yourself whatever dignity you may have left, and leave now before you're humiliated yet again?"

The color of Malfoy's face reminded Harry of Uncle Vernon in full rage. He surprised Harry, however, by maintaining his temper and sneering once again.

"You know, Potty, I know you're nothing more than a Halfblood, but I didn't think even you could stoop this low. I mean, it's bad enough that you lower yourself to associating with Mudbloods," he gestured disdainfully at Hermione, "and squibs, but Delacour? That whore isn't even human!"

Incensed did not even begin to cover Harry's emotions. He sprang up from his seat and shot off two body binds in rapid succession, locking up Crabbe and Goyle. The bookends fell to the floor before they even knew what hit them. Another quick spell disarmed the Slytherin, while another slammed the door behind Malfoy closed, and all before Malfoy could even think to reach for his wand. Then Harry grabbed Malfoy by the front of his shirt and slammed him up against the door, his forearm pressed against the boy's throat, a grim frown on his face.

"You don't seem to understand me, Bad Faith," Harry ground out, "so I suppose I'll have to be explicit. I'm not interested in your bigoted beliefs, or your whiny inferiority complex, nor am I interested in continually being baited by you. I'm not going to put up with your garbage this year, Ferret—if you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from me and all my friends."

Malfoy's eyes blazed and he struggled against Harry's grip, but Harry had all the leverage and would not give him any room to move.

"When my father hears—" he rasped, until Harry cut him off.

"And that is why I have no respect for you, Ferret. The first sign of trouble and you go running for Daddy. Perhaps some time you should learn to fight your own battles. Or perhaps this is something they teach in Death Eater School? Do all of daddy's cronies go running to Voldemort when the going gets rough?"

Calling on all his disdain and disgust for the inbred twit, Harry pulled out his best impression of the elder Malfoy's cultured voice. "How dare you defy me? When the Dork Lord hears of this…"

Ignoring the laughter from the rest of the group, Harry focused his attention on Malfoy, noting the almost purple hue of his face, though whether that was due to anger or the pressure on his throat, Harry could not be certain. "Just remember, Bad Faith, you've never managed to beat me and you never will. You're welcome to try, though, any time you like."

A quick swish of his wand, and the door sprang open, spilling the Malfoy heir into the hallway where he collided with Parkinson, who had been banging on the door, demanding alternately that Harry release Draco, and that he open the door. The almost comic look of disbelief on her face when she went down with Malfoy sprawled on top of her was priceless. A couple of levitation charms later, and all four Slytherins had been dumped in the hallway in a tangle of limbs. Harry then shut the door, locking it behind him, while he pulled the shade to give them some privacy.

Predictably, it was Ron who spoke first. "Mate, that was bloody brilliant!"

Chuckling, Harry acknowledged his friend with a grin, before turning to the rest of them, with a more serious demeanor. "I meant what I said—that little prick better stay away from us this year. If he tries anything, hex first and ask questions later."

"But Harry, you could get into trouble for that," Hermione responded. "It's not that he doesn't deserve it, but do you really want to run the risk of getting detention or worse?"

"This coming from the girl who bloodied his nose in third year?" asked Harry rhetorically. Hermione blushed at the reference, though he thought he detected a small smirk as well.

Surprisingly it was Neville who answered for the entire group. "Hermione, the reason Malfoy gets away with as much as he does is because there are no consequences for his behavior. Snape ignores his actions, and Malfoy is clever enough that he hides them when any of the other teachers are around. If he starts feeling the consequences of his actions from those he is trying to bully, then maybe he'll think twice before doing it again."

"Exactly, Neville," Harry said, saluting the other boy. "Though I doubt Malfoy is smart enough to understand enough to leave us alone, I say we practice Moody's mantra—constant vigilance. But we also need to remember not to allow the enemy to get the upper hand. Don't start anything, but if he does start something, make certain you finish it."

A general agreement met his declaration, though Hermione's was perhaps a little subdued. Seeing this, Harry sat down next to her.

"I don't intend to start a fight with him, Hermione," he said softly. "But I will not allow him to continue to insult my friends or my betrothed."

He glanced up at Fleur and smiled at her, which she returned. "For my part, Harry, I agree. He'll just get worse the older he gets if you don't teach him that he can't get away with it."

"All right, Harry," Hermione finally agreed. "But don't go looking for trouble."

Harry allowed an injured frown to come over his face. "I? Go looking for trouble? Hermione, you wound me."

The general laughter in the car once again dispelled the serious mood, and the friends returned to their light-hearted banter, until the announcement of their arrival.

* * *

Fleur had initially pushed back when her friends suggested she would be as wide-eyed as a first year upon going to Hogwarts this year, making it plain to all her friends that it was not as though she had never before been to Hogwarts.

What she had not counted on, however, was the fact that the famed old castle was well able to surprise and awe virtually anyone, especially one who was entering it for the first time as an actual member of its student population. From the station, and the long train ride, to the carriages which they boarded to journey to the castle, everything felt far more magical to Fleur than she felt it should have, being, as she was, as seventh year student on the cusp of adulthood.

But there was nothing to be done—she found herself impressed all over at the grandeur of it all, and excited for the coming year, much to the amusement of her companions.

Exiting the station, the group of friends stepped down from the platform and made their way to the waiting carriages which would take them the final distance to their destination. While they were waiting in queue, however, her fiancé stared ahead at the gathered carriages, his eyes wide with astonishment.

"What are those things pulling the carriages?"

Almost as one, the group followed his gaze. Confused, Fleur glanced back at her betrothed—there was nothing in front of the carriages. They appeared to be propelled by some sort of magic.

"There's nothing in front of the carriages, Harry," Hermione told her friend gently.

"Yes there are, Hermione," Harry disagreed. "They look like big scaly horses, with wings folded along their backs."

"Oh, those are thestrals," the voice of Luna Lovegood piped up.

Now, in the time that they had spent training and associating with one another, the group had become intimately familiar with Luna, and her odd ways. Her proclamations regarding fantastical creatures such as Nargles, Nifflers, and Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, among others, were well-known to the group. And though they truly liked her and had quickly come to consider her a good friend, her pronouncements were still somewhat confusing—at times, they did not truly know how to take the little blond.

"What are you on about, Luna?" Ron demanded. "There's nothing there."

Luna turned her gaze upon Ron—more focused than was her wont, Fleur noted—and chided him. "Just because you cannot see them, Ronald, doesn't mean they don't exist. Thestrals are invisible to all but those who have seen death."

"Then that means since I saw Cedric die at the third task last year…" Harry's voice trailed off as he was clearly remembering the events of that horrible night.

Fleur reached out and took his hand, imparting what comfort she was able, while Luna addressed Harry.

"Yes, Harry—that would qualify. Cedric was such a nice boy…"

"Then why can you see them, Luna?" Neville asked.

"My mother died when I was nine," responded the girl. "I was there."

"I'm sorry to hear that," was Neville's response, as he reached out to take her hand. Luna smiled up at him, but she did not remove her hand from his.

The group waited in silence until they boarded the carriages, Fleur's thoughts centered upon her betrothed. Harry had not spoken much of the night he had seen Cedric die, but she knew that it still had the power to affect him. As they entered the carriage, she took up position to Harry's right, never letting go of his hand, while Hermione bracketed her friend on the other side. Fleur raised a knowing eyebrow at her friend, which Hermione ignored, before Neville, Ron and Luna entered and took their positions on the other seat. Fleur noted idly that Neville and Luna had not released each other's hands.

The mood lifted, however, as they approached the castle, and Fleur, still excited as she was, peered forward, eager to catch a first glimpse at the famous building. Harry favored her with an indulgent smile, but Fleur was too excited to do more than return it somewhat breathlessly.

"Maybe Fleur should have ridden in the boats with the firsties," Ron commented with a grin.

"And why is that, Mr. Weasley?" asked Fleur with an uplifted eyebrow.

"The boats carry first years to an underground grotto where they wait for the sorting," Harry explained. "The boats are kind of cool, but the most spectacular thing is the first sight of the castle as you round the point on the lake. I've never seen anything so awe-inspiring in my entire life."

"Then I'm sorry I've missed it."

"That should be our goal for this year, then," said Neville. "We'll build a boat and sail her round the head at dusk so Fleur can see the castle from the lake."

As the friends laughed, Fleur looked archly at the young man. "Thank you, Neville, but I think part of the mystique is the first glimpse of the castle. I have already seen it, after all."

"True enough," said Hermione. "But it's still worth seeing if you get the chance."

The carriage stopped in front of the castle and the six friends disembarked, meeting up with their friends who had ridden in different carriages. As a group they strode into the entrance hall, making their way through the milling mass of students.

At one point Fleur noticed the blond Slytherin from earlier staring at them with some displeasure, but he made no comment, merely pointedly turning his back on them with an exaggerated flourish.

"Looks like something I said may have finally penetrated through Malfoy's rock-hard skull."

Fleur glanced questioningly at Harry. He pointed toward a tall man with dark hair and black robes who was currently glaring at them with some disdain.

"In previous years Malfoy would have gone directly to Snape with tales of how I mistreated him. But with Snape just standing there, I guess he hasn't—maybe he wants to turn over a new leaf and start living up to his potential of a bully who _doesn't_ go running to daddy or his head of house at the first sign of trouble."

"Oh Harry," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes, "don't even joke about something like that. Malfoy is bad enough the way he is—he'd be ten times worse if he actually grew a backbone and acquired some competence."

Harry chuckled and winked at her, while Fleur merely smiled. She had seen Malfoy in action and could not help but agree with their assessment of the boy. And as for Snape, she had already been warned many times over by members of the entire group. She expected nothing less from the man than the treatment to which he routinely subjected Harry. However, with her father as a protector this year, Snape had better watch his behavior—Jean-Sebastian Delacour was not one to put up with the kind of nonsense for which the man was infamous.

The group moved further into the hall, and had reached the massive doors to the great hall when they were stopped by the diminutive charms professor Fleur remembered from the previous year.

"Miss Delacour, welcome to Hogwarts!"

"Thank you, professor, I am happy to be here."

"And I am certain that Hogwarts is happy to have stolen such a bright and talented witch from our counterparts in Beauxbatons. You will be a credit to our school, to be sure."

He leaned close and conspiratorially, but in a stage whisper, said, "I know perhaps you are hoping to be sorted in the same house as your betrothed, but you should consider the house of the intelligent—we would be pleased to have you join us."

"Are you attempting to influence a prospective student, professor?" asked Hermione with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Professor Flitwick grinned at her. "Certainly not, Miss Granger, though now that you mention it, I believe there is another present who should have ended up in my house."

"Oh no, professor," Luna chimed in. "I think Hermione ending up in Gryffindor was for the best."

"You are probably right at that," Flitwick replied with a sigh. "But that doesn't stop me from wishing it were different.

"In any case, my errand here is not a social one," he continued. "I have been instructed by the Headmaster to convey Miss Delacour to his office for her sorting—he feels there is no need to make a spectacle of your sorting in front of the entire school."

"Yes sir," Fleur agreed, before turning to her companions. "Harry, Hermione, will you come with me also? If that is acceptable, professor."

"No problem at all, Miss Delacour—I'm sure the support will be more than welcome."

"We'll take her there, professor," stated Harry. "I'm sure we know the way."

Flitwick laughed. "I'm sure you do, Mr. Potter. In that case, I will resume my normal duties. Please hurry along, as we do not wish to delay the sorting of the first years."

With that, Flitwick departed. Harry turned to the rest of the group.

"Please save us places—we'll be back shortly."

As the group nodded and departed, Fleur noted that no one called Harry on his assumption that she would be sitting at Gryffindor table with the rest of them. Perhaps it was because she would be sitting with him regardless of whether she was sorted in the same house or not.

The trip up to the Headmaster's office was accomplished in silence, and when they arrived, the gargoyle guarding the door immediately moved to the side and allowed them to step on the revolving stair. They soon reached the top, and entered through the open door, to find Dumbledore sitting behind his desk, with Professor McGonagall perched on one of the chairs to the side.

"Ah, Miss Delacour," greeted the Headmaster. He gestured to a chair situated directly in front of his desk. "Please have a seat and we will begin.

"And as for you, Mr. Potter," said Dumbledore with a barely concealed smirk, "I suppose you felt you had to accompany your betrothed to ensure she was sorted in the proper place?"

"Of course, Headmaster," said Harry with an answering grin. "I wouldn't want my fiancée to have to live with the snakes, after all."

The Headmaster chuckled, while McGonagall looked on with amusement. But it was a ratty old hat sitting on the Headmaster's desk that responded.

"That will be quite enough, Mr. Potter," said the hat. "Just because you had a bad experience with a future Slytherin and didn't want to be sorted into that house, doesn't mean you control me. Miss Delacour will be placed in the house in which she would be most suited, I assure you, regardless of your juvenile wishes."

Fleur gaped at Harry with astonishment. Not only was she surprised at the sight of her betrothed being chastised by _a hat_, but the fact that it had almost played him in _Slytherin_ of all places was a revelation! She regarded Harry, noting that Hermione had an identical expression of shock on her face.

Harry shrugged and grinned cheekily. "What can I say? I met Malfoy on the train and didn't want to be anywhere near him. I asked the hat not to put me in Slytherin, and given what I have to put up with from the little prick ever since then, it was the right choice."

"Mr. Potter!" exclaimed Professor McGonagall, though to Fleur's eyes she did not appear to be overly scandalized.

At the same time, the hat snorted with some exasperation. "I still say you could have aspired to greatness in Slytherin, though I will admit that it was a tossup between Slytherin and Gryffindor. I suppose you have done well there too."

"Thanks." Harry's response was more than a little sarcastic.

"Though this is perhaps a most interesting discussion," interjected the Headmaster, "we should move on to what are here for."

Indicating her readiness, Fleur waited while McGonagall, receiving a nod from Headmaster Dumbledore, retrieved the hat and placed it upon her head. Suddenly, Fleur felt a presence in her mind.

_ It is a pleasure to finally be able to sit upon your head, Miss Delacour._

Fleur laughed. _I'm not sure what I expected, but I don't think it was this._

_ Well, how could I have come to know your strongest characteristics if I was unable to see in your mind and communicate with you? Should I instead sort you based on the color of your hair, or perhaps you should just tell me where you want to go—would we save time that way, do you think?_ _It worked for Mr. Potter, after all._

_ You're rather sarcastic for a hat._

The hat gave the equivalent of a mental shrug. _My creator patterned me after his own personality, and Godric was as sarcastic as anyone I've ever met. I have developed my own brand of cynicism, though—it comes from sitting on the heads of every snot-nosed eleven year-old to come through this institution for the past thousand years._

_ I can see how that would affect you,_ Fleur responded politely.

_ I'm sure you can. In fact, I must say it is rather refreshing to be perched on the head of someone a little more mature. I can certainly do without all the pubescent hormones, emotional uncertainty, and the perpetual angst of the unknown which exists in the minds of most of those upon whose heads I have been perched. Now, shall was have a look and place you in your proper house?_

Though speaking with the hat was amusing, its particular brand of sarcastic cynicism was beginning to grate on her. _Please._

The hat went silent for a moment, before it began musing to itself in her head. _Most intriguing. I see you have an impressive intelligence, more than enough to see you in the house of Ravenclaw, though perhaps it is not your defining characteristic. You have do have some ambition, though again not as strong as some of your other traits. Regardless, that particular house would obviously not accept you, so the point is moot. You are loyal in the right circumstances, so Hufflepuff is a possibility. However… Ah yes, you have courage aplenty, not only to stand up for who you are, but for the trials you've faced in your life. Then, at the second task, though you were terrified, you faced your fears and competed. For that alone, you would do well in…_

"Gryffindor!"

Removing the hat from her head, Fleur smiled and thanked both of the professors. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in response.

"Well, Minerva?"

"Nothing more than I expected, Albus," replied the professor, a little smugly, Fleur thought. "In fact, I believe I should have made that wager with you."

"I think not," responded Dumbledore. "I believe I would have known better than to accept a bet of that kind."

McGonagall laughed then turned to face Fleur, a bright smile adorning her face. "And let me welcome you to Gryffindor, Miss Delacour! I trust you will be a welcome addition to the house, and will fit in with all your friends."

"Thank you professor," responded Fleur, somewhat embarrassed at the praise. "I will do my best to become a credit to the house."

"And I am sure you will," responded the deputy Headmistress. "However, I believe that we have a sorting ceremony to attend, and I would not wish to keep you all from your friends for any longer than is necessary. Let us go to the Great Hall now, shall we?"

The rest of the evening was somewhat of a blur for Fleur. Though the sorting proceeded in apace, she could not say who was sorted where, other than that her new house had received the most students—almost twenty in number. Not that the other houses were ignored. Harry gave her to understand that this group of first years was by far the largest he had seen in his time at the venerable institution.

The one thing which was quite clear in her mind when she thought about it later was what happened immediately after the Headmaster's opening remarks and introductions. And if she had not already felt a rather large measure of distaste for the pink-clad woman sitting primly at the head table, looking down her nose at the assembled students—though Fleur privately thought the woman had sneered in the direction of their group more often than anywhere else—the woman's words would have provoked her dislike.

Upon her introduction, Madam Umbridge stood and after usurping the Headmaster's position, proceeded to address the assembly.

"Students of Hogwarts, I thank you for the most gracious welcome you have given me. Indeed, I feel at home already amongst you all in this ancient institution."

The members of their group all exchanged smirks with one another. If the woman truly considered the silent stares a warm welcome, then she was either witless or blind, not to mention deaf.

"My name is Delores Umbridge," she continued, "and I have the very great honor to be serving as your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year. I hope we shall accomplish many great things together in the days ahead."

The woman stopped for a moment and gazed up at the ceiling, apparently deep in thought.

"The Ministry has become very concerned about the standard of education taught at this august establishment in recent years," she continued slowly, once her period of introspection had passed. "I am here to ensure the standards of instruction improve, but also to ensure you are taught the proper information which will allow you to succeed, without overwhelming you. I trust this will benefit you not only at Hogwarts, but also in your future life.

"But make no mistake—I intend to see that Hogwarts improves so that its graduates meet their potential. As a part of this, I have come to the understanding that certain… students," here she directed a simpering glance in Harry's direction, "have received preferential treatment. I assure you that every student in this school is—and is to be considered—equal, by all of the professors."

She once again flashed her insipid and insincere smile at the students. "Again, thank you, and I look forward to working with you all!"

The students were dismissed soon after Umbridge's statements, and though Harry and Hermione were busy directing the new first year students to Gryffindor tower, Fleur walked with the rest of their friends in the wake of the wide-eyed new students.

"Is she for real?" said Ron, voicing the thought Fleur suspected they were all thinking.

"For real or not, it's going to be an interesting year," said Neville ruefully.

"Is it any different from usual?" said one of the twins.

"Yeah, ever since Harry got here, _every_ year has been interesting," said the other.

Fleur simply took all this in stride, while gazing around at the castle. It was the first time she had been up to the Gryffindor dorms and though she was not unfamiliar with Hogwarts, she was not certain she would be able to find her way again.

The common room was garishly decorated in red and gold (in Fleur's opinion anyway), but exuded a warm, comfortable feeling despite being rather hard on the eyes. She was introduced to some of the other students, particularly the seventh years, and though she was warmly accepted by the twins' friend, Lee Jordan, she felt the typical reserve from the ladies. Even the three Gryffindor chasers appeared to be somewhat wary of her, even though they clearly had nothing but respect and affection for Harry. She knew that for the time being, until she proved herself, she was been accepted based on the recommendations of the members of their little group. And it was partially her fault, she suspected—they had likely seen her aloof act at the tournament and equated her with the spoiled and arrogant princess she showed to keep the world at bay.

Still, it was much better than the almost blatant hostility she received from many of the other girls at Beauxbatons. With time—not to mention the girls' eventual understanding that she would not be attempting to steal any prospective boyfriends, not with Harry having already claimed her—she was sure they would become easier in each other's company. In all, she was happy with her first day at school. There would undoubtedly be challenges, but they would stick together and overcome them.

* * *

_Updated 05/23/2013_


	13. Chapter 12 – Of Bats and Toads

**Chapter 12 – Of Bats and Toads**

The school year beginning in September 1995 was an oddity in that September the first was a Friday. As such, after the welcoming feast and the first night in the castle, the next two days fell on the weekend and first classes did not begin until Monday. That did not mean the days were uneventful—in fact, nothing could be further from the truth.

As Angelina had been made the Quidditch captain that year, she had decided that she wanted to get the team squared away as soon as possible, so they could get down to practicing. This was her one chance to win the Quidditch Cup as the team's captain—as she would graduate the next June—and she wanted to make certain that she did everything in her power to ensure that Gryffindor prevailed. The one problem the Gryffindor Quidditch team would face that year was the loss of their keeper, Oliver Wood, who, it was rumored, was trying out for a professional team. Therefore, the position would need to be filled. If Wood's replacement was even marginally competent, Angelina felt her squad had a very good shot at winning the cup again that year, as the rest of the team was returning and had won the cup two years earlier, the previous year being cancelled due to the Triwizard tournament.

Therefore, on the day after the feast, the hopefuls of Gryffindor house all trooped down to the Quidditch pitch for the anticipated tryouts, and though everyone knew there was only one starting spot available, Angelina had insisted on there being fair tryouts for _all_ positions, regardless of how long they had been on the team, or how secure their position was considered.

Of course, the tryouts went almost exactly as expected. Fred and George Weasley were clearly the class of those who tried out and were named the team's beaters, while Katie Bell, Alicia Spinet along with Angelina Johnson were the team's chasers. The three girls had played together so long it seemed almost uncanny how well in tune they were with each other. Of course, Harry's position as seeker was secure, though an arrogant sixth year by the name of Cormac McLaggen had been bragging all the way to the pitch how he would take Harry's spot from him. But no one in the school could out-fly Harry, and he caught the snitch in every trial. McLaggen was not best pleased, but he left the pitch in a huff once it became apparent he would not be making good on his boasts.

The final position was taken by Ron Weasley. Ron had dreamed of the day when he would be able to make the Quidditch team since long before arriving at Hogwarts, and though the trial was somewhat anticlimactic—he was the only one to try out for the spot—he performed competently and was named the starting keeper.

The one true surprise, however, was the reserve team. The usual suspects, such as Ginny Weasley and Dean Thomas, were again made reserves, but the fact that Fleur Delacour had also tried out and made the team as a reserve chaser, induced many raised eyebrows. It had all come about due to a discussion several days before the start of school.

* * *

"Harry?"

Turning to the person of his betrothed, Harry smiled. "Yes?" he asked, noting that she appeared nervous. They had been sitting in one of the rooms of the manor for the past hour and though Harry had been leafing through his transfiguration textbook for the coming year, it had not escaped his attention that she appeared a little nervous and out of sorts. She had been working up to this the whole time they had been in the room.

"I'm just wondering…" she began, her words coming out slowly, proclaiming her hesitance, "What are the others in my year at Hogwarts like?"

"I only really know those in Gryffindor," Harry replied. He supposed he should have expected this to a certain extent. Fleur had not had a good history with others her own age, and she would undoubtedly be concerned about how she would be accepted.

"Well, how are they then?" Fleur asked. "I suspect I'll end up there with you anyway?"

"What, you don't want to go in with the snakes?" Harry teased gently.

"Oh, Harry, don't even suggest such a thing!" Hermione exclaimed from where she had been following the conversation in a nearby chair.

"But Hermione," Harry innocently replied, "you know that _not all_ Slytherins are greasy bastards and slimy gits like Malfoy and Snape, right?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course I do. But the house does have a preponderance of bigots. Fleur would never fit in there."

"Just Gryffindor house please," Fleur interjected, apparently attempting to get the conversation back on its original track.

"Well, you've already met Fred and George. Lee Jordan is the other guy in seventh year and he's pretty laid back and fun. He spends a lot of time with the twins actually."

"So I should watch out for him then?" Fleur asked with an arch of an eyebrow. "Is he likely to prank me too?"

"Nah, Lee's cool. I think he sometimes helps the twins plan their pranks, but he generally lets them do the dirty work. Then you have Angelina and Alicia—they're on the Quidditch team too, along with me and the twins."

"That's 'the twins and me,' Harry," Hermione corrected him. Harry merely grinned at her impishly, having known that she would try to correct his grammar. Hermione shook her head at him and turned to Fleur.

"Angelina and Alicia are very nice; I think you'll get along well with them."

Fleur nodded, but her distraction showed in her unfocused eyes. "I don't have… a good history when it comes to making friends."

"Just be yourself, Fleur," Hermione urged. "You'll be fine. Besides, you're hogtied to _him_," Hermione jerked a thumb at Harry, "so you shouldn't have any trouble with jealous girlfriends."

"Hey!" Harry protested. "I'll have you know that I'm considered to be a fine catch."

"Methinks someone is obtaining a rather large head," Hermione said in a sing-song, teasing tone.

"I know!" Harry said, snapping his fingers. It was time to move this conversation away from the tangent in which it had proceeded. "You can fly pretty well, right?"

"I _am_ a witch, Harry," Fleur replied primly.

"So is she," Harry retorted, returning Hermione's earlier gesture and pointing his thumb at her.

"Be nice!" Hermione said while reaching over to slap him on the shoulder. Harry could tell from her grin that she was taking his comment in the spirit in which it was meant.

"Yes, I can fly," Fleur affirmed. "I may not possess the death-defying skills and fearless ability to out-fly a dragon, but I'm pretty good."

Harry ignored that comment. "Then why don't you try out for the Quidditch team?" Harry asked. He was more than a little excited about the prospect, the more that he thought about it. It would be nice to have his betrothed on the team, as it would allow them to spend a little more time together and learn more about one another.

"Harry, that's a great idea!" Hermione exclaimed.

Fleur, however, did not seem to understand.

"I wouldn't exactly suggest that Angelina and Alicia are Quidditch fanatics," Harry hastened to explain, "but they do enjoy the game. Trying out would be a way to get their respect pretty much instantly. I think it would be a good way to meet others, especially the two girls you'd be sharing a dorm with. And Katie's on the team too. She's a year younger, but she's really nice. You could get to know her too."

"Well, I have played a little in the Beauxbatons recreation league," Fleur began slowly.

"That would be perfect," Harry assured her. "Unless you're a great flyer, you're unlikely to unseat any of the three starting chasers, but you could be an alternate, and maybe get into some of the games."

Smiling, Fleur nodded her head; it seemed that the Gryffindor Quidditch team would have another member trying out this year.

* * *

It turned out that Harry's advice was almost prophetic in nature. Angelina had praised Fleur's flying ability and her determination, and a bridge had been built between Fleur and the three chasers. And though perhaps she could not at this point consider the three girls close friends, she could at least consider them strong acquaintances. Time spent together would do the rest. It was a heady realization for a young woman who had largely been lonely throughout her school experience.

Another thing of note that weekend was the behavior of one Ron Weasley, which raised some eyebrows, not to mention provoking some smirks and muted laughter at times. Simply put, Ron had decided it was time to seriously woo his chosen love, and though he was earnest and sincere, his efforts were at times so blatantly obvious that a blind man could see them.

The twins—who knew what he was about, given the fact that they had gifted him with the book—sat back to enjoy the show for the most part, poking fun at their brother whenever they got the chance. For his part, Harry stayed well clear of the torturous mating ritual, knowing that Ron's short temper would be ignited if he suspected his closest friend was not only aware of his attempts, but found them vastly amusing.

As for the recipient of Ron's attempts at courtship, Hermione found herself more embarrassed than anything else. She was flattered that he felt that way about her—she truly was—but the more she thought about her conversation with Fleur, the more she understood that the French witch was absolutely correct in her assessment of the situation. She and Ron were not compatible, and she had no interest in dating him.

The problem, of course, was how to tell Ron in a manner which would not only not hurt his feelings, but induce him to accept the situation with grace. She attempted to indicate to him gently that she did not return his feelings, but he either misread her attempts, or blatantly ignored them. After a few days of this, Hermione finally decided that the best way to handle the situation would be to wait for him to finally come to the point and let him down gently. Now all she had to do was to endure his attentions until he decided to do so.

As for her other topic of conversation with Fleur, Hermione had firmly decided that to enter into a relationship with Harry when he was already involved with Fleur was not a decision she could make on the spur of the moment. There were so many things to consider: her feelings—which were as strong as they had ever been—her parents' reactions, whether she could actually share her husband, to name a few. It would take much thought before she felt she could even begin to determine what she wanted to do. For the time being, she resolved to think about it, while intimating to Fleur that she _was_ considering it, and would appreciate some time to do so. Fleur, who truly liked Hermione, was quick to assure her friend that she would not press her. Of course, Harry remained blissfully ignorant of the situation.

* * *

While Harry had been happy to return to Hogwarts for his fifth year, the first day of classes—and indeed every succeeding Monday—was not exactly something to be anticipated. Not only did Monday start out with History—the most boring class in existence, in Harry's opinion—but it was followed up with a double potions class with Slytherin, and then Defense after lunch with the newly appointed Umbridge. Potions was always fun with Snape at the helm, especially when Gryffindor was paired with Slytherin, but Defense, which had always been a favorite of Harry's, now promised to be just as trying.

Therefore, following the History class—a class in which Harry had actually managed to stay conscious, despite the inducement to catch up on his sleep—Harry and his friends made their way toward the dungeons, wondering what the Slytherin potions master had in store for them this year.

"Harry, you need to relax," Hermione said from his side. "Potions isn't _all that bad_."

"Speak for yourself, Hermione," Neville said somewhat morosely. "You aren't Snape's favorite chew toy."

Turning to look at her friend, Hermione tried to cheer the young man. "You just need to follow the instructions, Neville. The problems you've had in the past are because you did something in the wrong order."

Neville snorted. "That _would_ be good advice, but Snape hovers around and I get flustered. I think he does it on purpose."

"Don't be ridiculous, Neville," responded Hermione, somewhat primly it was to be admitted.

"You know he does, Hermione," interjected Harry. "The plonker has a vendetta against me and Neville—you know he does."

"_Neville and me_, Harry," said Hermione offhandedly, to which Harry grinned and winked at Neville. It had become something of a game in the past few weeks for Harry to deliberately say something which would cause Hermione to correct him, though to be honest she had been doing it since they had met.

Hermione completely missed the exchange, however, as she appeared to be deep in thought. And although she appeared as though she wanted to refute his claim, years of experiencing the professor's treatment of Harry suggested otherwise, and Hermione was certainly smart enough to see it. The man was a professional—that could not be denied. He was acknowledged as a true master of the subject of potions, and Harry could never detect any deficiency in his knowledge. In addition, he was also a competent teacher, relating and instructing the students with a flair which could be infectious, if the man himself was not so personally distasteful.

The major problem with him was the fact that although he was a professional, he did not _act_ in a _professional manner_, allowing his dislike for any not of his own house, and a few in particular, to color his interpersonal relationships with his students. The man was a bit of a bully.

"I've had a few choice words from him myself," interjected Ron.

Hermione sighed. "He is a little… strict."

"Hermione, I could stand strict," said Harry. "It's the unfairness, the bullying and the outright intimidation I don't particularly like. The man is skilled, no doubt about it, but he's still a child in the way he acts. I'll bet you he wouldn't act that way if my parents were alive."

"You're right, Harry," Hermione said. "But you'd better stop talking. We're here now."

"Well, the Snape-free summer was nice while it lasted."

They entered the classroom to discover the potions master still blessedly absent—in fact, only a few of the Slytherins had arrived. Taking a seat near the middle of the classroom, Harry suppressed a smile when Hermione sat down next to him, prompting a glare from Ron, and then pulled his textbook from his backpack and arranged his things on his desk in preparation for class. He knew from experience, after all, that being ready for the beginning of the day's lecture would earn him a small measure of grudging respect from Snape. At the very least it gave the man one less thing to complain about.

For the few minutes before the other students began to file in, the four friends spoke in low voices, about potions and school, but Defense in particular. Harry had already made certain to pass Jean-Sebastian's warning about Umbridge on the express, but the specifics of what the woman would be attempting were still unknown. They had made an agreement, therefore, to support one another and ensure she was given no reason to make an example of them, regardless of how difficult she made it for them in class.

A few moments before the beginning of class, Malfoy and his friends walked into the room and took their seats at the very back of the class. In the two days since the confrontation on the train, Harry had seen the Malfoy scion several times, but every time the blond twit had declined to bait his favorite target, making Harry hope that he had finally been able to get through to the ponce. Unfortunately, the moment Draco entered the room, Harry's hope was dashed.

"Hey Scarhead, congratulations on your _engagement_."

Harry ignored him—as long as he said nothing against Fleur, the little bigot could spout whatever he liked.

"Good thing he landed a betrothal," Parkinson sneered. "No one would have him otherwise."

Harry just laughed at Pansy's stupidity—if anything, the unwanted fame of being the Boy-Who-Lived made it easy for him to find a girlfriend, if all he wanted was a shallow relationship with a girl who wanted nothing more than his fame.

"It seems like even the bollicking I gave you on the express hasn't managed to knock some sense into your empty head, Bad Faith.

"And as for you, Parkinson," he continued, fixing the girl with a glare, "even a betrothal contract wouldn't be enough to get _you_ attached. Your family would have to pay someone to take you off their hands, and even then they would have to throw a bag over your pug face."

Parkinson colored and looked to be gathering a retort, when Draco threw himself back into the fray. "I hear you're claiming that the Dark Lord is back. Has he come after you yet? I bet you're crying in your bed at night wondering when he will finally show up teach you a lesson."

"And I've heard that he hasn't been able to go anywhere," countered Harry with an evil smirk. "The scuttlebutt is that your lips have been magically attached to his arse all summer."

Furious, Malfoy grabbed his wand and directed a hex at Harry. But Harry, who had been expecting this from the Slytherin, blocked it easily and hit him in the chest with a stinging hex of his own, causing the blond to yelp in pain. The Gryffindors laughed at the ponce's girly squeak, while the rest of the Slytherins looked on, for the most part impassively.

Of course, Snape chose that exact moment to enter the classroom.

"Potter!" he yelled. "That will be five points and detention for hexing a classmate."

"Don't look now," Harry whispered to Hermione, "but His Lugubriousness has arrived."

Hermione let out a soft giggle at Harry's quip, an action which was covered nicely by Ron's protestations.

"What about Malfoy?" Ron demanded. "He started it and threw the first curse."

Snape turned his dark glare on the redhead. "Perhaps you'd like to join your friend in detention for lying, Weasley?"

"He wasn't lying, sir," Neville said in a rare show of backbone in front of his nemesis.

Snape regarded Neville as though he was an insect. "I only saw Potter's actions. Any further discussion on this subject will result in more points and detentions."

Harry said nothing, content with sitting back in his chair and glaring at a now smirking Malfoy. He reviewed the confrontation, noting the attempt to get a rise out of him by the Slytherins. He did not know if it had been planned from the start, though he doubted that Snape would conspire with a group of students to hand out a detention to another, not when he was so gifted at managing it all himself. But if Harry had to guess, he thought that Snape had probably been waiting outside the classroom door—waiting for an opportunity, knowing the mutual hatred which existed between the two boys. He would have to think about it further, and figure out a way to turn the tables on the Slytherins.

The rest of potions class went much the same as it usually did. Harry, by virtue of being Hermione's lab partner—not to mention his newfound dedication to his studies—was able to brew the potion assigned. He was even able to induce Snape to pronounce the potion "acceptable," though he was certain the professor would almost rather have gouged out his own eyes than praise the son of his enemy. Hermione's potion was, as usual, impeccable. Even Ron and Neville were able to gain acceptable grades for the day's work, though their potions were not exactly the right shade Snape had expected.

As they left the potions laboratory, Harry made it a point to ignore the Slytherins who were still heckling him as he walked from the classroom, he mind still working over the problem of Snape and his unprofessional attitude.

"Harry," Hermione said gently, "you really should know better than to respond to Malfoy. Can't you just ignore him like you're doing now?"

"Do you suppose he waited outside the classroom to try to catch me doing something?"

"Doesn't he always?" was Ron's pessimistic statement.

Expecting Hermione to scoff at his suggestion, Harry was surprised when she thought about it before responding. "He does seem to have near perfect timing, doesn't he?"

"That and he's a bigoted, unprofessional, childish git, who can't see past the fact that I'm James Potter's son," groused Harry.

"You seemed to take the fact that he assigned you a detention rather calmly."

"He's done it before and he'll do it again," was Harry's shrugged response. "The more I protest, the worse it gets, so why bother?"

"But it's not right!"

"Tell it to Snape," said Harry, and with a grin he put his arm around her shoulders, ignoring Ron's dark look at his actions. "Look, Hermione, you're right about allowing Malfoy to provoke me into a response. We promised Jean-Sebastian that we wouldn't let Umbridge trick us into doing something she could use against us, and I go and let Draco do the same. I'll have to apply that same principle to Malfoy and Snape."

The look Hermione gave him was proud and a little mischievous. "That's a rather mature attitude, Harry. I didn't think you had it in you."

Harry waggled his eyebrows, provoking a laugh from his friend. "Maybe it is. I guess we all have to grow up at some time."

"All right you two, what's so funny?" Ron demanded, hurrying up to them.

It was all Harry could do not to roll his eyes—even after informing Ron that he had no designs on Hermione, the redhead still regarded them with suspicion when they so much as glanced at one another. He should know better, as they had behaved in this manner practically since the first day they had become friends. Really, Harry wished Ron would just settle down—he would have a much better chance with Hermione if he was not so tense and jealous of her interactions.

"We were just talking about how to deal with Snape and Malfoy," said Hermione, while disengaging herself from Harry's arm. The apologetic sidelong glance at Harry nearly prompted his laughter in response. He did manage to control himself, but it was a near thing.

Ron turned and looked at Harry. "What, you're going to banish them through a wall? Or maybe hex their bits off?"

"Nah, I'll just ignore them. That's what Jean-Sebastian told us to do with Umbridge—why shouldn't it work for the bat and the ferret?"

Though Ron looked a little dubious—simply _ignoring_ Malfoy had never actually been on the table before. He said nothing though, and the foursome entered the Great Hall for lunch.

They found Fleur sitting with the twins and the chasers halfway down the Gryffindor table and sat beside them, Harry sitting next to Fleur with Hermione on his other side. The talk turned to the morning's classes—the seventh years had begun the year with charms—and though the twins pressed them, knowing they had had potions that morning, Harry brushed them off, saying it had been just another potions class. It was a sad fact that Harry spoke nothing but the truth—unfortunately, Snape's behavior that morning had not been anything out of the ordinary.

* * *

That afternoon, their Monday continued with the dreaded Ministry-appointed Umbridge. Though the class had not yet started, a sense of foreboding had settled over the joint Hufflepuff/Gryffindor class.

It was perhaps ridiculous, Hermione thought to herself, considering the fact that none of them knew the woman personally, and most of the class had little clue of what to expect from her. Even her words on the night of the feast had contained very little real information as to how she would run the class that year, and had said nothing of her teaching methods.

Of course, the textbook they had been assigned was not the best—it was vague and contained relatively little information, especially considering this was an OWL year. But again, that in and of itself did not account for the nervousness Hermione felt from her classmates.

Regardless, the nervousness was present, perhaps to a greater degree than it had been even during first year—firsties are nervous about _everything_—and fourth year, when an unpredictable, yet decorated Auror had been contracted to instruct at the school. The fact that Voldemort's return had been publicized, though completely denied by the current Minister, added to the atmosphere, but Hermione had to attribute the uncertainty to the fact that Umbridge was known as a vehement supporter of the Minister, and a cruel detractor of anything not Pureblood.

As the bell sounded, the door to the woman's office opened, and she stepped through, directing a sweet smile—which was patently false—at the assembled students. Hermione snorted inwardly; the woman herself certainly projected no overt threat. How could she? Unless one's greatest fear was short, pudgy women, dressed tastelessly from head to toe in pink, she could hardly intimidate. In fact, she reminded Hermione more of a pink Care Bear than a Defense Professor.

"Hem, hem, welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts class," she simpered once she had reached the desk at the front of the room. "I thank you all for coming to class on time. I trust you are all ready to learn as you never have before!"

In private, Hermione had to suppress the urge to gape at the woman as though she was stupid—it _was_ an OWL year, after all. Why would they show up if not to learn? To her side, she thought she sensed Harry suppressing a snicker, but when she glanced at him his face was placid and controlled. A thrill of affection raced through her, and she considered the events of the summer and how he had grown and matured since fourth year. The old Harry would likely already have started becoming impatient with the woman and her prattle.

Umbridge scanned the room, her eyes coming to a stop on Harry for the briefest of moments before moving on, and though her expression did not change, Hermione could almost sense the malevolence hidden below the surface. It was completely beyond her how something so pink and fluffy could be considered malevolent, and it was that thought which had her suppressing another laugh. She hoped that Harry would be able to continue to control his temper as this woman would almost certainly test it.

"Well now, class, I understand your education to be somewhat fractured in this class, is that not so? We at the Ministry are well aware of the fact that not one professor has lasted for more than one year for some time now."

When the class grumbled their assent, the woman smiled and continued. "This year shall be different. The best minds at the Ministry have toiled over the summer months to determine a curriculum which will not only provide you with the best education, but will do so in a safe, Ministry-sanctioned environment. As such, I will share with you the goals for this course for the coming year."

At a wave of her wand, a short list appeared on the blackboard.

_1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.  
2. Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.  
3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use._

Though Hermione wondered exactly what the woman was up to, she dutifully copied the points down on her parchment, along with the other members of the class.

"Now, I presume everyone has a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard?" said Umbridge once the scratching of quills had ceased.

A murmured assent met her query, to which she frowned. "Perhaps your previous professors ran their classes in a lackadaisical manner, but when I went to school, we raised our hands when we wished to speak in class, and when the professor asks a question we respond, 'Yes, Professor Umbridge,' or 'No, Professor Umbridge.' Now, shall we try that again?"

"Yes, Professor Umbridge," the class intoned, and though Hermione could definitely detect a certain mocking quality from several quarters, it seemed to satisfy the professor.

"Much better. Now, if you will all open to chapter one, let us jump right into the material."

The _material_ was dry. In fact, it was worse than dry. Even Hermione, who had never had trouble staying awake in History of Magic—though perhaps she was the only one—found the text to be almost hypnotizing. The author, though perhaps possessing a certain competent knowledge of defensive magic, had obviously never actually cast such a spell in his life, as the text was littered with theory, conjecture, and anecdotal accounts of possible uses of defensive spells. In short, as Hermione had expected, the material was useless.

Umbridge ran the class much as Hermione remember from her second grade in the local primary school. Anyone who wished to speak was required to raise their hand, and Umbridge demanded that she be referred to as "Professor Umbridge." The level of formality was not so much the issue, as that was how she generally referred to all of her professors. It was more that Umbridge seemed to be trying to stamp her authority on the class, and not only because she was teaching it.

Underneath it all, Umbridge seemed to be watching the class with an almost ferocious glee. She clearly expected someone to say something about the text, and the way she gazed at Harry suggested that she expected it to be him. Harry, however, merely read along with the rest of the class and contributed his not inconsiderable knowledge to the conversation at the appropriate times, though he never offered an answer without prompting. The times he did speak, it was due to Umbridge calling on him, hoping, Hermione suspected, to obtain a rise out of him.

Hermione, knowing that she was not the target that Harry was decided it was up to her to poke at the woman a little in an attempt to discover exactly what she was up to. At a short pause in the discussion, Hermione raised her hand, speaking once Umbridge had acknowledged her with a sickly sweet smile.

"I'm just wondering," said Hermione in as diffident a manner as she could manage. "This theory is… interesting, but in previous years we would already have begun practicing the material by now. When will we get to that?"

Umbridge's smile was patronizing and her answer even more so. "My dear child, surely the subject is interesting enough that you are not already dissatisfied?"

"No, Professor. I am merely inquiring as to when we will be allowed to use what we are studying."

Umbridge let out an exasperated sigh. "Are you a Ministry-accredited instructor, Miss…?"

"Granger," Hermione answered. "And no I am not. I'm just wondering—that's all."

Though Umbridge looked suspicious, she merely answered the question with the same condescension as she had showed earlier. "Well then, the answer is very simple, Miss Granger. We will not actually be casting spells in this class, as it is unnecessary."

The faces around the room darkened at the implication.

"But Professor, isn't practical application in Defense the most important aspect?" queried Susan Bones.

Hermione did not truly know Susan—as a Hufflepuff she tended to keep to herself and fly under the radar, as many Hufflepuffs did. However, what she knew of the girl suggested that she was intelligent and hardworking, and perhaps most importantly, protected. Her aunt _was_ the director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, after all, and Hermione doubted Umbridge would incur the wrath of the DMLE head unless Susan truly did something to merit punishment.

"You could injure yourself using these spells, Miss Bones."

"Wouldn't we be more injured if a dark curse actually hit us because we have not practiced the proper counter?" demanded Ron.

Umbridge turned her sickly smile on Ron. "Now where could you possibly come into contact with a dark curse, Mr. Weasley? Do you not think our institution is safe?"

Harry and Hermione shared an amused look—given what had happened every year of their education at Hogwarts, a very strong case could be made that it was most certainly _not safe_. However, pointing that out to Umbridge would likely prompt her anger in return, so the friends kept silent.

"Oh the school is safe," replied Ron, though perhaps only a few of his closest friends caught the irony in his voice. "But what happens if I am attacked in Diagon Alley?"

"Then you should call in the Aurors, Mr. Weasley. Is that not what they are there for?"

"To apprehend criminals, perhaps," said Susan Bones, a hint of steel in her voice, "but the Aurors cannot be everywhere at once. If you wait for Aurors to arrive on the scene, you may be dead already."

"What an imagination you have, Miss Bones. I assure you that Diagon Alley—and any other wizarding area—is completely safe. There is no need to fear."

"Pardon me, Professor, but that is _not_ what my aunt says. She has told me on multiple occasions that she has far too few Aurors to properly protect the populace, and that it is every citizen's right and responsibility to protect themselves. We all carry a deadly weapon on us at all times, after all."

A flash of annoyance spread over Umbridge's face, but she masked it in an instant. Clearly, the woman was upset that the niece of the DMLE head had torn her arguments apart so effortlessly.

"A deadly weapon? What fanciful nonsense are you speaking?"

"A wand," Harry's voice rang out through the room.

"Pardon me Mr. Potter?"

Harry gazed at the woman with the placid look he had adopted since she had entered the room plastered across his face. "The weapon Susan referred to, Professor, is a wand. Each of us carries with us a tool which is capable of bludgeoning, stinging, cutting, causing a person to itch, regurgitate slugs, and a whole host of other unpleasant things. And given what the fake Professor Moody demonstrated last year, it can also be used to torture, kill, and force someone to do what you want them to do."

"And are _you_ planning on committing such nefarious deeds, Mr. Potter?"

Hermione almost chuckled at the stupidity of the question, and wondered if Umbridge truly expected Harry to respond incorrectly. Did she truly consider him an imbecile? The woman was about as subtle as a high-speed bludger.

"Of course not, Professor," replied Harry. "I'm merely pointing out some of the things which are theoretically possible with a tool which we _all_ carry on our persons at all times."

Umbridge shook her head, her visage sorrowful. "And that is what I am speaking of. Obviously your experiences last year with your Defense professor have skewed your views. You should not consider your wand to be a weapon—only hooligans and misfits would think in such a manner. Rather, you should think of it as a tool which can be used to perform amazing feats of magic."

"Oh, I do, Professor," said Harry with an entirely feigned measure of earnestness. It was all Hermione could do not to laugh at the way Harry was baiting her without appear to be baiting her.

It was again clear from the almost constipated expression of disappointment she sported, that Harry's brief and concise answer irritated Umbridge. She was sent to the school to attempt to marginalize Harry—and likely Dumbledore—that much was certain. But she was obviously having difficulty determining exactly how to go about accomplishing this mission, given the fact that Harry was not behaving as she had expected him to. Hermione was proud of Harry all over again—Hermione did not know what the toad had planned, but Harry certainly was not making it easy for her.

"But Professor," Parvati Patil chimed in with a perky and seemingly innocent enthusiasm, "you just said there was no danger in the magical world. Shouldn't that suggest that there are no 'hooligans' and 'misfits?'"

The entire class had to stifle their laughter at such blatant challenge of the professor had told them. Though Umbridge's eyes narrowed for a moment, her sickly sweet smile never left her face.

"Please put your hand up if you wish to speak, Miss Patil. I will not have this class degenerate into a group of rowdies all clamoring for attention.

"In answer to your question, I did say that the wizarding world is safe, but I also said that if you stumble into a dangerous situation, you should allow the Aurors to handle it. _They_ are the professionals, after all."

Hermione could almost hear the rolling of eyes at Umbridge's statement. The woman must truly consider them to be nothing more than eight year-old children, if she expected them to be taken in by her blatant obfuscation.

"But Professor," Dean Thomas chimed in, "it's our OWL year. How are we supposed to pass our practical exams if we don't practice the spells?"

"_Raise your hand, Mr. Thomas!_" Umbridge squealed.

Dean raised his hand and waved it around in an exaggerated manner, repeating his question once Umbridge had motioned for him to do so.

"There will be enough theoretical knowledge in the course of the year, that when it comes time for you to take the practical portion of your exam, you should have no problems."

"So we'll need to cast the spells in an examination situation, without ever having performed them before?" demanded Justin Finch-Fletchley, who had until that moment remained silent.

"Is that a problem?"

"Casting a spell without practice?" said Ron. "It sure is!"

Murmurs of agreement echoed from all sides of the room.

"It usually takes some practice time before I can properly cast a spell, and I'm not the only one," Ron continued. "Not all of us can be Harry Potter, after all."

A gleam entered Umbridge's eye as she turned her attention on Harry. Knowing Harry as she did, Hermione guessed that Harry would like to smack Ron upside the head for unnecessarily drawing attention to him.

"We can't all be Mr. Potter, is it? I must admit that I was unaware of the presence of a prodigy in our midst."

Harry shook his head. "I'm not a prodigy, Professor. I'm just a student trying to study my hardest, get the best grades I can, and have a little fun at school."

"Don't let him fool you," Dean spoke up. "Harry's better at defense than all the rest of us put together."

"Don't give him a bigger head than he already has," Seamus said in a stage whisper, accompanied by a glare at Harry. He had not been overt, but since they had returned for classes, Seamus had seemed a little colder to Harry than he had been in the past

"Hands, Mr. Thomas, Mr. Finnegan," Umbridge said absently, while still gazing at Harry. "Is this so, Mr. Potter?"

Harry's answering gaze was calm and implacable. "I don't know about that, Professor Umbridge—I don't really want to get into bragging about myself, you understand. Defense _is_ my best subject, and I usually pick up the spells quite quickly, but I'm sure there are others who do as well."

"And did you pick up _last year's_ lessons as well as you normally do?"

Harry paused and looked up, while cupping his hand in his chin, in apparent thought. "Well, of course we didn't try to _cast_ the Unforgivables—I guess that's a line that not even Barty Crouch Jr. would dare to cross. But whatever you say about the man, he was an effective teacher—I suppose it was because of the fact that he was so familiar with the dark arts himself, being a previous follower of the Dark Lord and all."

All of Umbridge's affected sweetness was by now completely missing from her manner. The way her eyes were fixed on Harry, Hermione suspected that if she could pierce him through with just her gaze, Harry would be bleeding on the floor even now. However, even she could not take exception to what he said.

"A Dark Lord you claim has returned, if I recall correctly, Mr. Potter."

Hermione held her breath—Umbridge was now not only openly tempting Harry to respond, she was obviously attempting to get him to lose his temper by insinuating that he was either lying or delusional about Voldemort's return. With the Minister's insistence that the Dark Lord _could not_ have returned, it was clear to see what she hoped to accomplish.

"I've told my story, Professor Umbridge, and I see no reason to continue to discuss it. Obviously, given your faith in Minister Fudge and Madam Bones, they are handling the situation—as a mere student, I don't see that it's my place to become involved any further."

"There is no _situation_ to be handled, Mr. Potter, as the Dark Lord has _not_ returned."

"Then I have nothing to worry about," replied Harry with a shrug.

She continued to stare at Harry with a hint of consternation entering into her eyes. It was but a moment, however, before she once again resumed her veneer of sweetness.

"If you are as good as the rest of the class seems to think, then you should have no problem with the Defense OWL exam."

"I don't rightly know, Professor," responded Harry with a genial smile. "We've only just begun the year, and this is just the first class."

Harry's smile became brighter and Hermione thought she could detect a hint of deviousness in his eyes. "If you would like me to provide an assessment of your class once the year is complete, I'd be happy to do so, but I don't think I could do so now with so little practical experience."

Umbridge's eyes widened in surprise. Obviously she had not expected an answer from him, and the concept of a student rating a teacher was not something which had made its way into the magical world. However, Umbridge merely looked away and returned to her desk, her disappointment palpable.

"If the interruptions are finished, I believe we should return to the lesson. I trust you all still have your books open?"

The rest of the class passed in the same manner the first part had, with sections of the book read to the class while the professor expounded on certain points. Her observations were insipid, and downright stupid on some cases, while in others, she merely restated exactly what the book said, with the words merely rearranged to give her the appearance of expanding upon the subject. In other words, the woman had proved beyond a doubt her lack of any detailed knowledge, and just exactly how little use her class would be in preparing them for their OWL exams. With a useless text and a useless professor, this class would perhaps be even worse than Lockhart's class.

What Hermione could not decide was what to do about it. Could they have Professor Moody come and tutor them to get some practical application? But that would almost certainly draw the attention—and the ire—of the esteemed toad-woman, who would almost certainly object, not to mention giving her some ammunition to proceed with whatever plans still percolated in her ugly head. It was a dilemma to be certain, and one which would require some thought.

At length, the class was dismissed. The four friends filed from the room and out in the hallway, pausing for a brief moment to let the Hufflepuffs and the rest of the Gryffindors to clear the area.

"Can you believe that woman?" Neville began in an undertone.

"I'm more concerned about Harry," said Hermione. "I'm proud of you, Harry—you ignored her insults and kept your temper."

Harry shrugged and then grinned at her. "I won't say I wasn't tempted. But she's so full of it that I figured it was a waste of my time to play her game."

"Good on you, mate," said Ron, stepping forward and putting his arm around Hermione's shoulders.

Hermione was just able to keep herself from rolling her eyes at him before she disengaged his arm from her shoulders with a gentle twist. Speaking of blatant, Ron had been getting more and more obvious since they had arrived at school. It was not difficult to keep him at bay, but it was a little annoying.

"It's no big deal," said Harry. "I appreciate your support, but in the end, it's just like Jean-Sebastian said. She's just not worth the effort.

"I'll tell you this, though," he continued with more than a little steel in his voice. "If all she does is try to get me to respond, I can handle her. But I won't take, or allow my friends to take any abuse from her or anyone else, just like I told Malfoy."

The boys murmured their agreement to his sentiments, and they set off for Gryffindor tower. Hermione was of two minds about Harry's declaration. On the one hand, she knew that they all need to stand up for one another and push back against the bullies. However, Umbridge truly _was not_ worth it and Harry would only get himself into hot water with her if he pushed back.

But then again, he would not be Harry if he just lay down and took whatever Umbridge dished out. He was far too noble for that.

* * *

It was later that evening when the friends were gathered in the Gryffindor common room. Fleur was sitting beside Harry, with Hermione on her other side, while Ron tried to get as close as possible to Hermione in a nearby armchair. Neville and the twins sat on the other side of a table from them, and the chasers were all close by. Nominally the group was glancing over their respective school work and textbooks for the next day. In reality, however, there was very little studying actually occurring. The group was more engrossed in discussing the day's events than anything else.

When the older students heard what had happened in Defense, there was some groaning and moaning about having to put up with _that woman_ for a whole year. However, there was an equal number of smirks for the way that Harry had dealt with her.

Fleur's true interest, however, appeared to be captured when the account of the morning's potions class was shared. Harry, though in truth he still despised Snape as much as the sentiment was returned by the greasy bat, treated the episode as though it were nothing more than a joke. And to him it was—he had been dealing with it since he started at Hogwarts.

Fleur, however, did not see it in quite that manner.

"Is this the way the potions professor normally behaves?" Her voice was flinty and her expression hard.

"Don't worry, Fleur, I've learned to deal with Snape."

Throwing her hands up in the air with some exasperation, Fleur glared at him. "That's not the point, Harry. A professor has an obligation to the students he teaches. He must be fair, teach his subject in a manner which can be understood, help those who require additional help, and ultimately, to guide his students through their studies so that they succeed. It sounds to me like Snape is a pretty poor teacher."

Hermione sighed. "Actually, Snape is a good teacher. He understands potions, and is very good at explaining how different ingredients work together to create the proper effect. That is, when he takes the time to do so."

"Yeah, but too bad he's such a failure as a human being," said Harry with a snort.

"Are you the only one he picks on?"

Harry shared a glance with Neville. "He favors his own house without a doubt. It's always seemed to me that he singles Neville and me out more often than not."

"Do you know why?"

"As for me, it's probably because I'm pants at potions," said Neville with a certain note of dejection in his voice.

"Have you ever attempted to make a potion without that bully standing over you?"

An embarrassed Neville just shrugged his shoulders in response.

"And you, Harry?"

Leaning back on the sofa, Harry thought about it for several moments. Fleur did have a point about Neville's performance, and he knew that though he himself would never be a master at potion making, his new confidence induced by a loving family had given him a sense of determination to do better, something which would likely affect his potion making skills.

Even more than the aspect of his potion making, Harry found that he truly liked this side of Fleur which he had never seen before. Not only did she exude a righteous anger, and a sense of determination for a cause, but he also found it made her already stunning beauty somehow more enticing.

"In my case it has to do more with my parents than with me, I think," Harry responded at length. "Sirius told me that my Dad and Snape were rivals at school, and that their rivalry sometimes got out of hand. As for my Mum, apparently she and Snape were close friends before coming to Hogwarts. But they drifted apart over the years and Snape blamed my father for their estrangement."

"So, a professor, at what is widely considered to be the premier magical school in Europe—if not the world—essentially picks on three quarters of the student population and singles out certain students for _special treatment_. This is bullying, Harry. Normally a student would only have to worry about bullying from other students, not from their teachers."

Harry nodded his head with the others—what Fleur had said was only the truth.

"Have you appealed the detention and points?"

Harry merely looked blankly at her, while Hermione started and peered at her with some surprise.

"Appealed?" queried Hermione. "You can do that?"

Fleur rolled her eyes. "Of course you can. Surely you have such a process in the Muggle school system as well?"

"Well, yes, but…" Hermione trailed off.

Knowing what Hermione was thinking, Harry understood her reluctance to speak. It was known—even by many Purebloods, who had never had any interaction whatsoever with the Muggle world—that socially the magical world was many decades behind their Muggle counterparts. However, it was one thing to understand it, and quite another to have it pointed out to you.

Luckily, either Fleur did not understand Hermione's reticence, or she chose the simple expedient of ignoring it. "Hermione, I would be very surprised if there was not an appeals process at Hogwarts. There is certainly one at Beauxbatons. Though the house system and house points do not exist there, I still have seen it used to protest detentions, or even essay results. There must be something similar at Hogwarts."

"I've never heard of one," Angelina chimed in.

Many of the other students who had been listening to the conversation murmured in agreement. It was a general consensus that had such a process been known, it would have been used long before to protest Snape's treatment of Gryffindors in general.

Thoughtful Harry wondered if such a process did exist, and if so, if it could be used to get the greasy bat off of his back. It was certainly worth a try.

"All right," he finally said, responding to Fleur's unspoken question. "I'll go to Dumbledore tomorrow and talk to him about what happened in potions today."

A bright smile met his declaration. "Good choice, Harry. I will go with you. If Dumbledore refuses to do anything, we can always involve my father."

Harry frowned. "I'm not sure we need to call your father, Fleur. Like I said, I've handled Snape for the past four years—I'm sure I can continue to do so."

"But you don't _need_ to, nor should you have to," said Fleur with an affectionate pat on his hand. "Snape undermines the entire educational process when he behaves like a bully, and a generation of Hogwarts students has not had the potions experience they should have had due to his actions. That needs to be corrected.

"And besides, you now have my family to help look out for you. You don't need to do it all yourself."

_This_ was at the crux of the issue, Harry mused. He had always been required to be self sufficient and make certain he looked out for himself—the Dursleys certainly could never be bothered to have his best interests at heart. Even after he had arrived at Hogwarts and made friends who would look out for him, it had not been the same as having a parent to watch over him. Rather than feel smothered like he would have expected, Harry found that he liked the sensation. It felt good to know he was no longer alone.

* * *

_Updated 05/23/2013_


	14. Chapter 13 – Appeals and Reprimands

**Chapter 13 – Appeals and Reprimands**

Fleur Delacour, filled with righteous anger, turned out to be a revelation for Harry. Not only did it make her even more enticing than she already was, as he had previously noted, but it also revealed a whole new facet of his betrothed which he had never known existed. The affection and respect he felt for her deepened because of it.

Though he had promised her the day before that he would talk to Dumbledore about Snape's behavior, she apparently harbored enough doubt about his intentions—or more about his tendency to try to deal with everything on his own, as she informed him—that Harry arrived in the common room the following morning and was greeted by the sight of Fleur waiting impatiently on a nearby sofa. By her side sat Hermione, who appeared to be slightly in awe of Fleur; his betrothed was obviously still incensed by Snape's actions. Upon seeing him, Fleur rose and greeted him with a perfunctory, "Good morning, Harry," before grasping his hand, beckoning Hermione to accompany them, and essentially frog-marching them out of Gryffindor common room.

It had been Hermione who had pointed out—quite correctly—that courtesy, as well as proper procedure, dictated that their first appeal should be made to their head of house, rather than directly to the Headmaster. And while Fleur was clearly eager for an accounting from the Headmaster as to why this situation had been allowed to persist, she had grudgingly agreed with Hermione's assessment. Therefore, to Professor McGonagall's office they were to go.

On the way to their destination, Harry's thoughts led him to his new understanding of several of Fleur's traits, as she admitted to having herself. The first was that Fleur was a rather patient witch, one who would put up with quite a bit before truly becoming angry. However, when that anger was released, it was rarely a mild display, and more often resembled a spectacular pyrotechnic explosion. She was a passionate witch, and for that fact, Harry could only be thankful; life with her would never be dull.

However, he had also learned that Fleur was particularly intolerant of bullies, gossipers, and those who looked for ways to enjoy the misfortune of others. This was due, she freely admitted, to the treatment she had often received as a young Veela attending school, and the prejudice to which she had been subjected all her life. A sure-fire way to completely bypass her normally long fuse was to expose her to someone behaving in the manner which Snape had done—her patience generally evaporated quite quickly in such cases.

Another thing which he had known for a time, but which had been abundantly displayed only recently, was that Fleur was fiercely protective of anyone she deemed part of her family. It appeared that Harry—and perhaps somewhat surprisingly Hermione—now fitted into that category. Since their return to school, Harry had found that Seamus Finnegan, with whom he had roomed for the entire first four years of his schooling, had been quiet and withdrawn where Harry was concerned, though he had been as he ever was with everyone else. A chance remark a few evenings earlier had betrayed the fact that he now believed the Ministry in their smear campaign against Harry, and was suspicious of Harry's complicity in the matter of Cedric's death.

Harry, true to form, had been more than willing to let his dorm mate believe whatever he liked, but he had not counted on Fleur's protective streak. The French witch had eyed Seamus with some distaste, before she proceeded to tell him in pointed and sometimes insulting fashion, exactly how stupid she considered him to be in believing the Prophet's slander. Her observations had not been brief either—it had finally been Seamus's rather petulant and quick departure which had served to halt her diatribe.

In light of her character and sense of right, it was clear that nothing would interfere with her demands for justice for Harry and Neville, and she had vowed to her companions that morning, that if Dumbledore was not prepared to rein the potions master in, then she would have no choice but to involve her father. And knowing Jean-Sebastian and his own tenacity, involving him would likely involve a world of hurt for Snape and would undoubtedly bring Fudge into the situation. It was obvious that the Snape was retained by Dumbledore for some reason other than his less than sterling teaching record, and as such, Fudge would take a perverse delight in making certain that one of Dumbledore's men was ejected from the school, forcefully if possible. And while this would perhaps give Fudge another weapon to use against Dumbledore, the three companions all knew that Jean-Sebastian would consider the quality of education and the protection of his daughter and her betrothed to be his first priority.

Strangely enough, Harry found her determination to be infectious, and though a part of him still nagged, telling him that he could handle the potions master himself, the new and growing sense of belonging to a family told him that he could be worrying about more important matters than a petty, greasy bat with a chip on his shoulder. Besides, the thought of Snape getting reprimanded, coupled with the even more delicious notion of Malfoy finally not getting away with whatever he wanted, was far too tempting to pass up. He could almost hear Malfoy's usual response. _"When my father hears about this…"_

Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending upon whose opinion was canvassed, McGonagall indicated that she was powerless to do anything regarding Snape.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Potter, I believe you will need to speak with the Headmaster on this subject," she said with some regret. "I _am_ glad you are receiving such good advice from Miss Delacour and not allowing Severus to get away with his behavior any longer."

Fleur's eyes narrowed in what Harry understood to be fury, having seen it several times in the past day. "Professor, are you telling us that you are aware of the abuse Harry has had to put up with from the potions professor?"

"Directly aware? No," was the response. "And I will thank you not to insinuate that I would have allowed it had I known. The fact of the matter is that I've always known how Professor Snape felt about Harry; even had I not been aware of his hatred for James, I could hardly have missed the comments he has made in my hearing over the years.

"But knowing of his feelings and suspecting him of improper behavior in his classroom are two completely different things. He's always been very circumspect in my presence, not surprising given he knows what my likely reaction would be."

"But what about his propensity to take away points or assign detentions?" Fleur persisted.

"He is very careful about the assignation of detentions, as he knows they are, to a certain extent, scrutinized. As for points, I will only say that not all is as it seems. I can assure you, however, that I would never allow him to influence the point system to the degree that it would adversely impact my, or any other, house."

With that, the three friends had to be content, as the deputy Headmistress would not be more explicit. She encouraged them to seek out the Headmaster immediately and discuss the matter with him. The three, correctly interpreting her words as a dismissal, took her advice.

A few moments later, the gargoyle outside the head's office announced them to Dumbledore, who immediately granted them access. They settled into the chairs across the desk from the Headmaster, and Harry could not help but notice Dumbledore regarding them curiously.

"Welcome, Harry, Miss Granger, Miss Delacour," the man said with aplomb. "I had not expected to see you in my office this early in the term. Nothing has happened with Madam Umbridge, has it?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Only if you consider the fact that she's incompetent, and does not know the material in the slightest."

"She tried to bait Harry into saying something she could use against him," Hermione chimed in. "But Harry kept calm and didn't give her anything."

"Very good," Dumbledore said with a nod. "Until we can come up a way to remove her, avoidance is the best policy."

"I must admit to being confused, Headmaster," said Fleur. "Since the woman is clearly not qualified to teach the subject, wouldn't it be easy to have her sacked?"

"I've tried," said Dumbledore with a sigh. "Unfortunately, the matter is out of my hands. In the past, this law was put into place to ensure the quality of instruction at Hogwarts was maintained in case a candidate could not be found by the Headmaster. Generally, however, the appointment would be made by the educational department. If the Headmaster did not agree with the appointment, he could bring it up with the Minister, and have him arbitrate the situation. The law has never been changed, unfortunately, and it's being abused by Minister Fudge. As he is the one who appointed Madam Umbridge, there is nothing I can do at this point to remove her. We need some ammunition against her before we can make our move."

It was convoluted and much of it did not make a whole lot of common sense, but Harry, having known for quite some time that things in the magical world were often nonsensical, pushed the matter from his head. The Minister was a problem for another time.

"If you are not here about Madam Umbridge, what can I do for you this morning?"

"We're here about your _other_ problem professor," Fleur said in an even, yet implacable voice.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at Fleur's tone. "Have you had an issue with a professor, Miss Delacour?"

"No, but Harry has. And apparently, it's been going on for some time."

The Headmaster's gaze shifted to Harry. "Mr. Potter?"

With as little emotion as possible, Harry related the events of the previous day's potions class, explaining the facts with little embellishment.

At the end of his account, Dumbledore sat back in his chair, and directed a stern gaze at Harry. "You say this is not the first time Professor Snape has behaved this way?"

"He's always seemed to have had it in for Harry, sir," said Hermione. "He seems to have a knack for showing up at the wrong moment so that he can catch Harry doing something he shouldn't, while missing what Malfoy or someone else did to provoke it. In fact, I'd say it's happened a few too many times to be merely coincidence."

"To the best of your knowledge, has the professor ever given you unfair grades?"

Harry scratched his head; he had never even considered this aspect of the matter, though from Fleur's expression, she evidently had.

"I'm not sure I know, sir," he finally responded slowly. "I've always known that the professor doesn't like me, but I never thought to question the grades he has given me. And how would I know that a potion he graded as an 'Acceptable' should actually have been 'Exceeds Expectations?'"

"How indeed?" was the Headmaster's rhetorical reply. He turned his attention to Hermione. "And you Miss Granger? By all accounts you have shown a certain amount of skill in potions class. Have you noticed anything with respect to Harry's grades?"

Hermione was clearly uncomfortable with the question, but she gamely tried to answer it all the same. "I'm not sure either, Headmaster. I _think_ Harry's potions have been graded properly, though Professor Snape has not been as forthcoming with assistance in Harry's case as perhaps he has should have been."

Dumbledore motioned for her to continue.

"Well," Hermione said slowly, "for example, sometimes when Harry has made a mistake, the professor will vanish his potion. He's not exactly kind about either, usually calling Harry stupid, or saying that he was watching Harry do the steps in the wrong order. Shouldn't he correct Harry if he notices he is doing something wrong, rather than simply giving him a failing grade?"

With a sigh, Dumbledore nodded his head. "Yes, indeed he should, Miss Granger. Have you ever seen Professor Snape behave this way with anyone else?"

"He seems to have a certain amount of dislike for Neville too, but to a certain extent he is hard on all Gryffindors, and favors his own house. I understand that there is a certain amount of bias for one's own house, Headmaster—that is unavoidable. But Snape goes entirely beyond what is acceptable. He has taken points from me for being an 'insufferable know-it-all,' and in Harry's first-ever potions lesson, he asked questions which were definitely beyond what a first year should know, and when Harry could not answer, he deducted points."

"_Is_ there an appeals process for unfair detentions and point losses sir?" asked Fleur.

Dumbledore smiled and responded: "There certainly is—in fact, you are now invoking it."

"Then it should be published a little more clearly, sir," said Hermione somewhat hesitantly. "I had no idea it existed."

"I believe you are correct, Miss Granger. I shall speak with Professor McGonagall on the matter.

"Regarding Professor Snape," Dumbledore continued, "I was certainly aware of his antipathy toward you, Mr. Potter. But while I am well aware of the cause of his disdain, it is not my place to explain the matter any further to you at this time. I assume Sirius has explained it at least in part?"

At Harry's nod he continued. "Very well then. As I was saying, I knew of his issues with you, but as you never approached me about his behavior, I assumed that it did not approach inappropriate levels."

"You did not know of his behavior towards Harry?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Contrary to popular opinion, Miss Delacour, I neither know everything that occurs in this school, nor do I attempt to know, though I do try to remain informed as the major issues at Hogwarts. There is far too much involved with the running of the school, not to mention my other positions, for me to become some all-knowing being at this school. At some point, I have to rely on information from others, and I trust in my professors to tell me if anything is amiss."

Sitting back in his chair, the Headmaster appeared to consider something and when he spoke, it appeared as though he was musing out loud and not truly talking to them. "Perhaps that is my greatest failing—the tendency to trust in others when they do not truly deserve it, or perhaps when they are adept at hiding their actions from casual scrutiny. Perhaps taking a more active role will help ameliorate the problem."

He was silent for several more moments before he turned his attention back to the students. "Thank you for bringing this to me, Harry. You may be assured that I will speak with Professor Snape about this."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry in response.

"I beg your pardon, Headmaster," said Fleur, her countenance set in a stony cast, "but I'm concerned about the treatment _I_ will receive from Professor Snape, just by my association with Harry. And furthermore, with all due respect, the professor is undermining the education at this school with his behavior, and affecting the futures of many students graduating from this school. I won't go into the mockery he is making of the points system. I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but hasn't he proven unsuitable for his position?"

Dumbledore gazed placidly at Fleur, and while she was obviously a little uncomfortable with his scrutiny, she held her ground and met his eyes without flinching.

"You are to be commended for your concern, Miss Delacour. However, I do not believe that the situation is as bad as you seem to think."

Turning to Harry and Hermione, Dumbledore asked, "How would you rate Professor Snape's knowledge and teaching ability?"

A little uncomfortable, Harry nevertheless spoke up. "He's unpleasant, and sometimes even a foul git, but he's obviously a master potions brewer, sir. And when he actually takes the trouble to explain something, he is able to do so effectively."

"Miss Granger?"

"I'd say the same as Harry, sir."

"Very well," said Dumbledore. "I have observed the same—I've always known Professor Snape to be a brilliant brewer, and I am aware that his teaching method, though perhaps rough and blunt, and perhaps overly demanding and exacting, is acceptable. The exception to this, of course, is what we have already discussed in some detail—he needs to take a greater interest in correcting his students before they make a mistake if he is in a position to do so.

"However," he continued with a stern glance at them all, "I can assure you that the questions I asked you regarding Professor Snape's behavior were not mere idle conversation. The integrity of the educational process is a responsibility held by both parties—the professor and the student. The professor must teach the subject matter, help the students achieve what they are capable of achieving, and grade their work fairly and properly, while the student must listen to the teacher, give their best effort, and turn in work they have completed to the best of their ability. Clearly, in your case, Harry, Professor Snape has not upheld his end of the equation to the level I expect. His behavior in the classroom, while not proper, has not been egregiously so. However, I assure you that had there been any suspicion of unfair grading—beyond not offering advice _before_ a student fails—I would have been much harsher with the professor than I will otherwise. As Headmaster of this school, I must consider the deliberate act of grading assignments improperly as a major violation of the educational process. I believe he needs to be taken to task and instructed in the proper manner to treat the students, but given what you have told me, I do not believe he has crossed that greater line. Am I correct?"

Harry, with support from Hermione, had to agree—rather reluctantly—that Dumbledore was correct. But Harry could not help but to add, "I'm not sure he'll ever be fair toward me."

"I understand that, Harry, but can you claim a complete lack of bias yourself? We are all colored by our perceptions, and yes, our experiences, and though I will not tell you more of Professor Snape's past, I can tell you that certain events in his past, _have_ influenced him. However, it is not a requisite of the position to _like_ all the students, merely to teach them properly and treat them fairly. Since I believe that for the most part he has been upholding the necessity of teaching the subject—though certainly more professionalism, not to mention personal care and attention, is desired—I believe I will focus on his fair treatment of you and demand he make changes."

"And if he won't?" Fleur asked, her tone and manner still somewhat confrontational.

"_If_ that were to happen, Miss Delacour, then you can be certain that I will take the appropriate steps.

"With regard to your other points, though, I will tell you that Hogwarts has not experienced a dearth of potions graduates since Professor Snape began teaching here—on the contrary, though many will not scruple to say that they do not like _him_, very few have complained about his knowledge, or his ability to teach. And as for your concerns about the point system, I assure you I have that well in hand."

Harry looked curiously at his Headmaster, but no further explanation appeared to be forthcoming.

Dumbledore, however, adopted a stern visage when he spoke next, "I appreciate you approaching me with your concerns. However, in the future, I expect you to be a little more circumspect and a little less… confrontational in the way you make your case."

That last was clearly directed more at Fleur, but to Harry's eyes, Fleur appeared to be anything but repentant at the way she had addressed the Headmaster. Her next words made that fact abundantly clear.

"Thank you for listening to us, Headmaster," said Fleur. "I apologize for the way I spoke, but I do not apologize for the things I said. We truly do appreciate your assistance in this matter and hope that it can be resolved without involving my father who is, as you know, now Harry's guardian. I'm sure you are aware that my father would be much less circumspect in making _his _sentiments known."

Dumbledore inclined his head in understanding of the meaning of Fleur's words. "I understand, and I thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will take it up with Professor Snape personally."

And with that, the discussion ended. And though Harry would perhaps have preferred to see Snape pitched out of Hogwarts on his ear, he could not fault Dumbledore for his words and opinions on the subject. As long as Snape was off his back, he would be content.

Leaving the office, the three friends made their way toward the Great Hall for breakfast, in silence for the most part. There was much to consider.

* * *

As it turned out, it was the next day after dinner before Albus called the potions master into his office to have the discussion he knew that Severus would not take well. In preparation for the confrontation, he had investigated the incident from the previous day's potions class, not because he doubted the young Gryffindors' claims, but because he wanted to confirm exactly what had occurred from various sources, should Severus ask. Unfortunately, he knew exactly how the conversation would progress—Severus would respond with a derogatory comment about Harry's arrogance, while instantly blowing off whatever he was accused of. It was the man's _modus operandi_, after all.

It was a simple matter, to be truthful. Though he was the Headmaster, he had always tried to make himself available to the student body—to be approachable, as it were. A few subtle comments to get the right students thinking about the subject about which he wished to learn more, and a little passive Legilimency later, he had all the facts he required. He had even managed to snare a couple of Slytherin fifth years in his net, a fact which he could hold in reserve should Severus prove obstinate, not that Albus expected him to be anything else. It was a good thing passive Legilimency was not illegal—frowned on, but not precisely illegal. It was not something Albus practiced much, though he was very skilled at it, but it was a good way to quickly get to the bottom of things when he either could not, or did not wish to draw the attention of a formal investigation. Luckily, it only revealed active and surface thoughts; to obtain memories, one would have to invoke active Legilimency with the incantation, and Albus was not certain he could withstand the things he would find in an adolescent's mind. Memories of his own adolescence were more than enough for him.

Investigation was not the only activity in which he had been engaged, however. Most of the previous evening he had spent soul-searching, asking himself over and over again if he had made the right choice—did the benefits of having Severus in the castle and close by outweigh the obvious drawbacks?

The man himself was more than a little unpleasant, and even Albus, who fancied he possessed an unusually large well of patience, found Severus to be difficult to tolerate. He was always in a foul mood, his personal hygiene was suspect, he could hold a grudge with an almost unparalleled ferocity for years at a time, and his world views were at odds with everything Albus cherished. And in particular, the man was such a headache to regulate and control, that Albus had several times wondered whether having him here was truly worth the benefits, both real and potential. In fact, had Albus not had been absolutely certain that Severus was working for the light, his behavior alone would cause Albus to seriously suspect the man was still in fact a Death Eater, and still loyal to his erstwhile master.

He had decided long ago that when the Dark Lord returned—and Albus knew he _would_ return—having Severus as a supposedly loyal Death Eater, yet positioned in Hogwarts, would be an invaluable asset. The Dark Lord could then be convinced that Severus had remained faithful to the Pureblood cause and used his position to spy on the light. Thus far events had proven that theory. Whatever else the man was, his powers of persuasion were not lacking, as he had immediately convinced the Dark Lord that his loyalty was unchanged, and had been admitted into the ranks of Voldemort's Death Eaters once again without question. And his worth as a spy had once again been proven invaluable, as several pieces of priceless information had been gained, not to mention tragedies prevented. The trick, of course, was in making use of the information, without alerting Voldemort to the fact that his circle had been compromised.

And yet, for all that benefit he brought to his position, one could not ignore the fact that Albus had unleashed the man on the student population knowingly and willingly. And contrary to what he had said earlier to Harry and his friends, Albus was well aware of the fact that though those who graduated with a potions NEWT were extremely well educated in the subject—for Severus truly was a gifted teacher when he took the trouble—there were many who could not stomach the thought of spending two additional NEWT years after the five they were already forced to put up with him. It had certainly impacted their society, as fewer potions NEWTs graduates meant that certain doors had been closed all to those students who may have pursued their NEWTs if Severus were not the Hogwarts potions professor. And those who did pursue their NEWT studies through self study, obviously did so at a slower pace, and likely gained their NEWTs with a less precise knowledge of the subject than they would have, had they been taught in a classroom with a true master of the profession.

As for Severus's insistence that he would only accept students who scored an Outstanding on their potions OWL… Albus snorted at the thought. The man certainly had a certain arrogant conceit, to attempt to thumb his nose at international standards, which declared that anyone with a passing grade in an OWL subject was eligible to continue to NEWT level studies. Though Severus blustered and snarled about it, the fact of the matter was that Albus had always made the true standards known, and saw to it that Severus accepted those who achieved those standards, whether he liked it or not.

Albus was well aware of the fact that he was taking much onto himself with the decision to keep Severus in his position. Some might say that the damage he was doing far outweighed the benefits to Severus's position as an inner circle member of Voldemort's retinue. In all fairness, Albus could not help but agree, especially when he had to deal with situations such as Harry's.

The thing which always stopped him from cutting all ties with Severus and sending him on his way, however, was the vital role Severus played. Voldemort was a very real threat, and in order to defeat him, Albus knew that every weapon in his arsenal must be employed to its greatest effect. Otherwise, if the unthinkable were to happen and Voldemort should win, it could usher in a dark age the likes of which had never before existed, and which could last for centuries to come, possibly even spreading to all four corners of the world. In the light of such fears, concerns about the number of potions NEWT graduates seemed an almost insignificant consideration.

When the time finally came and Severus sat across the desk from him, Albus considered the man before him. He was a petty, immature bully, but his greatest failing when it came to Harry Potter, was the inability to separate the boy from the boy's father.

Severus likely knew why he was here already; there had been no other overt incidents in any of his classes to Albus's knowledge. His face was already set in his customary sneer and Albus knew there would be a certain level of acrimony in the coming discussion. With Harry as the subject, it could not proceed in any other manner.

"I suspect you know why I have called you in my office today, Severus," Albus began without any preamble. With Severus, it was always best to be blunt and straightforward.

"The Potter brat has complained again, no doubt," drawled the potions master with a sniff of disdain.

_This_ was exactly the kind of attitude which called Severus's usefulness into question, and Albus was determined to nip it in the bud.

"Again?" Albus queried gently. "Are you suggesting Mr. Potter has complained before?"

A roll of the eyes met Albus's question. "Incessantly I would imagine. The boy is as arrogant and spoiled as his father was."

Albus shook his head. "And that is where you are wrong, Severus. Mr. Potter has never before complained about your behavior, though I think that there are likely many instances in the past where he should have."

"Then I suppose you have taken the brat's side and I am here to be reprimanded."

"Indeed you are, but I will remind you that I am not stupid, Severus. I am well aware of what occurred in your potions class two days ago, and his account has been corroborated by several students of _both_ houses."

"Who did you speak to in Slytherin?" he demanded, instantly incensed that one of his own house members would betray him for a mere Gryffindor. It was Severus's second failing—an overwhelming loyalty to his own house, coupled with an almost pathological hatred for anything in red and gold.

"You know I have ways to find out the truth, Severus. I am well aware that Mr. Malfoy cast the first hex. Mr. Potter protected himself, and then responded in kind. I will also point out that Mr. Potter's object lesson was rather mild—a mere stinging hex."

Snape affected a nonchalant ignorance. "If that is so, Headmaster, then I was not aware of it. I saw Potter hex my house member, and I responded with the appropriate punishments."

"Do not insult my intelligence, Severus," Albus snapped, his anger building in the face of potions master's continuing belligerence. "I strongly suspect you were waiting outside the potions classroom for something to happen, as it usually seems to between those two—especially the way you let Mr. Malfoy get away with whatever he wishes. Regardless, a little investigation—which was no less than what I did, by the way—would have revealed the true events. You have once again let your arrogance and your hatred for that boy color your judgment."

Snape leaned back in his seat in an indolent and insolent manner. "I assure you, Headmaster, that _Potter_ is well able to get himself into trouble without any manipulations on my part. He is exactly like his rule-breaking, arrogant father."

Albus sat back in his seat, removed his glasses and massaged his nose in frustration. Severus truly was blind if he could not see what everyone who met Harry—and had known his parents—could plainly see. It was frustrating, and though Albus knew he had to make the attempt, he knew that Severus would refuse to see reason.

"It truly makes me wonder, Severus," he said at length, "how such an intelligent man can be so blind about something which is plain to everyone else. You must get past this. You cannot continue to take out your festering resentment of James out on his son."

"Perhaps I simply see much more clearly than everyone else," Severus growled.

"Not when you insist on comparing Harry with James. The fact of the matter is that Harry is nothing like James was. He doesn't have the arrogance—which even you must admit James grew out of as he aged—nor does he have James's devil-may-care attitude.

"In fact, I believe if you examined the matter closely, you would see that Harry is much more like his mother, than his father, other than his rather striking physical resemblance to his father."

"Oh yes," drawled Snape with a roll of the eyes. "Potter is much like his mother. Lily excelled at every subject and was the most intelligent witch I have ever met. Her _son_ barely scrapes by with acceptable grades and has none of the flair for potions which his mother had."

"I believe Mr. Potter has some extenuating circumstances which have affected his performance over the years. I believe you will be surprised to see his improvement across the board this year, Severus."

"I would not be merely surprised," said Snape rather flippantly. "Astonished does not even begin to cover what I would feel should the whelp actually develop some intelligence to go with his arrogance."

By now Albus's anger—always slow in developing—was beginning to build in the back of his mind. _This_ was exactly why he wished he did not have to keep this man on staff and protect him against his own actions. He was so inflexible, so unwilling to learn or admit that he may have been wrong. Though holding his temper was beginning to be more difficult as the conversation went on, Albus bit back a caustic retort and forced himself to deal with the former Death Eater in a rational manner.

"That will be quite enough, Severus," he reprimanded. "I will not have you saying anything else about Harry, or any other student. In fact, if it were not Harry we were speaking of, you would have lost your position long ago."

Curiosity written on his face, Severus raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, Albus. Of what are you speaking?"

"Oh come now, Severus—you are not blind, nor are you stupid. Mr. Potter has had to learn to rely on himself. It is a consequence of his neglectful upbringing by his aunt and uncle. Any other student would have complained to his guardian or his parents the first time you behaved in the manner you behave toward Mr. Potter on a daily basis. The first time would have been a formal reprimand, placed permanently in your file. The second could very well have resulted in your dismissal.

"Furthermore," Albus continued, interrupting whatever Severus was about to say, "you should know that the free ride you have enjoyed with Mr. Potter has come to an end. Surely you know that Monsieur Delacour has taken over Mr. Potter's guardianship. Trust me when I tell you that Jean-Sebastian is not a man with whom you should trifle."

"So, you wish me to favor the little whelp like everyone else in this institution does?"

Albus glared at Severus, forcing him to look down after an intense staring match. This discussion—far more intense than any they had had before, regarding Harry—was long overdue. It was time for Severus to understand that this behavior and continual belittling of the young man would no longer be tolerated.

"I do not know how you think that Mr. Potter receives special treatment, but I assure you that he receives only his due as a student—I expect the same from you.

"As for his guardian, Mr. Potter and Miss Delacour have informed me that they have _not_ informed Jean-Sebastian of what happened in your potions class, nor do they plan to do so. However, they have both made it clear that repeated incidents of unfair behavior would result in their bringing her father into the situation, and I would not blame them, nor would I stand in their way if they felt such a step was necessary. I need not explain to you just how damaging that would be to your continued tenure here. Once I am not able to protect you, your only recourse would be to rejoin Voldemort. You know what would happen then."

A grimace was Snape's only response. Albus took it as a sign that he had finally managed to reach through to the man, if only to frighten him into behaving as he ought. He did not for a second believe that Severus truly believed anything Albus had just told him about Harry. If he acted properly, that was sufficient—there was nothing Albus could do to alter his beliefs. As he had told the children the day before, it was not necessary for a professor to _like_ his students, only that he _treat them properly_. At this point, Albus would take any progress he could get.

"It appears I have no choice, Headmaster," the man finally said, his reply equal parts sulky and nonchalant.

"Indeed, you do not," Albus agreed. "I would hope that you would agree to behave with professionalism and decorum because it is the right thing to do, but at this point, I will take nothing more than your agreement due to your lack of other options."

A sneer was his response, but Severus also nodded his head.

"And let me be rightly understood, Severus," said Albus with more than a hint of steel in his voice, "that if I suspected you of intentionally grading Mr. Potter's work improperly, this would not be a reprimand—it would be an exit interview. But that is not something with which I need to concern myself, am I correct?"

Severus did not respond, he merely nodded tightly. He did not even allow his customary sneer to adorn his features.

"Good. I trust that your fair and unbiased judgment will continue, and that the educational process will be protected. The only thing I must insist upon in the matter of your teaching style, is that you be more proactive in assisting your charges—no more vanishing potions and berating students after they have made a mistake."

Again Severus agreed, though not without a certain level of anger.

"Now, as for the particulars of the altercation," Albus continued, noting the potions master's even darker expression at the mention of the incident, "as I have said, I have reviewed the incident with several of the students who were there. In particular, I found that not only did Mr. Malfoy and his friends incite the confrontation with their taunting, but that he also cast the first hex. As such, I am hereby reversing Mr. Potter's points deduction and detention, and reassigning them both to Mr. Malfoy. You may inform young Draco that he will serve his detention with Mr. Filch tomorrow evening."

Though Snape appeared like he wished to protest, he wisely kept his own counsel.

Albus shook his head slightly and focused a glare on the potions master. "Severus, I know you do not like this, but it is a reality. In particular, I would like to see you work with Mr. Malfoy. Until now the boy has been allowed to get away with the worst behavior. He must be brought to see the fact that certain behaviors have consequences, or he will turn out exactly as his father has.

"In addition, I must see your own behavior improve, not only to Mr. Potter, but to all who are not members of your house. I do not wish to have to do it, but I will review every punishment and reward you give out if I have to."

The potions master appeared a little green, but Albus just inwardly smirked. Over the years, Severus had thought that his point changes were relatively easy to slip through the cracks, while detentions received a little more scrutiny. He thus removed points with impunity, though generally the detentions he assigned were more deserved.

What Severus _did not _realize, however, was that Albus already _did_ review every point modification the man made, regardless of who was the recipient. A record was created of every punishment and reward handed out by every professor, head student and prefect, though only the Headmaster and deputy had access to those records. That was why a professor was required to state the point action—or detention—and the reason for the action. Albus spent some time every evening going through those records, and would then reverse those unnecessary or blatant deductions, leaving the man ignorant of the fact that his teeth had been pulled. It had proved necessary—otherwise, Severus would have single-handedly made the House Cup a mockery, ensuring his Slytherins won the house cup year after year, and by a handy margin. Not that Albus would ever let him know he had done this—it would no doubt incense Severus in the extreme. The man was already difficult enough to deal with, without adding that humiliation on top of everything else. Albus had not even told McGonagall that he was doing this, though he suspected that she already knew.

"I hope that this discussion has been clear, Severus," Albus continued after a moment of watching the man chew the issues over in his own mind. "I would hate to have it repeated, especially if Mr. Potter's guardian were to be brought into the fray."

Severus nodded curtly, and pulled himself to his feet. "I will attempt to modify my behavior, Headmaster. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe it is time to retire."

Without another word, Severus turned on his heel and stormed from the room, his cloak billowing in behind him. Sighing, Albus reached over to his candy dish and popped a lemon drop into his mouth, savoring the tart, yet sweet, candy. In truth, he had no faith whatsoever that Severus would change in any meaningful way. Oh, he would undoubtedly curb his natural unpleasantness for the time being, but Albus knew that he was simply incapable of modifying his cherished beliefs. He would change his behavior for a short time, but eventually his hatreds and grudges would force their way back to the surface, and he would yet again be every bit as insufferable, his changes completely forgotten. Albus had seen it before. He was not certain just how many more times Snape could survive the cycle.

* * *

The rest of the week passed in an uneventful manner. Fleur's potions class with Professor Snape was spectacular in the complete lack of anything resembling the man's expected behavior. In fact, had Fleur not already known of the reasons for his changed attitude, she would have been surprised, and then suspicious that her friends had misled her with their stories of Snape's lessons. As it was, other than the one time when she had asked a question—not due to a lack of knowledge, but rather to her curiosity about his reaction—Snape had completely avoided her and all but ignored her very existence. The fact that the man absolutely exuded bad temper, regardless of his tight rein on his own emotions, left Fleur glad of the fact. She wanted to have no more personal contact with him than the lessons absolutely required.

Defense class was the next major event of the week, and though she had already heard stories from her friends about Umbridge's inability to understand the subject, let alone teach it, the woman's behavior was something she had not expected.

It appeared that number one on Umbridge's hit list was indeed none other than Harry Potter. Although she was unpleasant at times to certain members of the student body—as was expected, considering she was a well-known bigot—Harry had been the only one she had openly baited, as far as they were able to determine. Fleur had entered the classroom expecting to be the recipient of the woman's displeasure, by the simple fact of her Veela heritage.

However, other than a slight tightening of the eyes and a disdainful sniff when the woman had first seen her, she had acted much as Snape had, and completely ignored Fleur altogether. After a certain amount of thought, Fleur had determined that either Dumbledore had warned Umbridge against any kind of overtly improper behavior, or the woman had decided that Fleur was unnecessary to whatever plans she had up her sleeve. The chilling part of that thought was that _Harry_ was undoubtedly a major part of her plans, and Fleur could not be in class with him.

What _was_ entirely evident from almost the first moment Umbridge had had the students open their books, was the fact that Defense this year was a pointless exercise. As Harry and Hermione had already said, Umbridge taught them nothing, understood what actually was in the book imprecisely, and had no intention of allowing them to use their wands at any point during the year. It was a sticky situation, as Fleur, though she was certainly competent in defense, was no prodigy like Harry was, and she was certain she would have a difficult time passing her NEWT without first practicing the spells which would be on the examination. And it was obvious she would not obtain that in Umbridge's class.

Defense was an afternoon class, and once it let out, Fleur headed straight back to the common room in the company of the other seventh year Gryffindors. Since the fifth years were free that afternoon, Fleur found the group of them lounging in the common room. True to form, Hermione had her textbook and parchment spread out on the table, her face intense with concentration on her work. With her sat Harry and Neville on either side of her—both working gamely away on their own homework—while Ron looked bored on the opposite side of the table. Fleur shook her head. Ron was a good and staunch friend for the most part, but his aversion to homework was almost legendary. Fleur was surprised Hermione had been able to get him as far as she had on homework which was not due until the next week.

Once again feeling the frustration of the Defense class, Fleur flopped down on a nearby sofa and groaned.

Harry smirked. "Have fun in Defense?"

"Oh yes," Fleur said with a glare. "Umbridge is so intelligent and knowledgeable, and she has our interests at heart. I just know that I'll learn…" she paused dramatically, "…absolutely nothing that I'll need to know to pass my Defense NEWT!"

A smattering of laughter was heard, Fleur's voice having gone from innocent worship to frigid disdain as she completed her declaration.

Harry directed a look of wide-eyed astonishment at Fleur's declaration. "But Fleur, Professor Umbridge said that we'd get enough theoretical knowledge in her class that we'd have no problem with our tests."

Harry's breathy imitation of Umbridge's voice brought out an even louder burst of laughter from those close enough to hear the exchange.

"Ah, but not everyone can be Harry Potter."

"Alright, alright—enough of that already!" Harry groused, alternately glaring at Fleur and Ron. "I think I owe you for that comment, Ron."

Ron's responding grin was all insolence.

"But Fleur's right," Hermione interjected. "How are we supposed to pass our OWL with Umbridge teaching us nothing, and not even allowing us to use our wands? Even Harry I think would admit to needing at least a time or two to practice the spells we will be quizzed on."

"We'll do the same as we do every year," said Harry with a shrug. "The same we did in first year with the stuttering idiot, or the second year with the fraud… Need I go on?"

"But this is different, Harry," Hermione complained, her voice taking on an almost whining quality. "We have OWLs this year and those test scores will affect our future schooling."

"Is this how it always is?" Fleur asked teasingly.

Smattered chuckles were heard throughout the rest of the room, and several of the students shared an amused glance.

"Well, for starters there was Professor Quirrel in first year," Harry began. "He not only stuttered so badly that you could not understand him, but also had Voldemort hitching a ride on the back of his head."

"Yeah, then there was the fraud, Gilderoy The-Only-Spell-I-Can-Cast-Is-An-Obliviate Lockhart," chimed in Ron. "The moron couldn't cast _anything _properly, and then to cap the year, he tried to off us and take credit for killing the basilisk for his latest work of fiction."

"And how about the disguised Death Eater from last year?" added Neville. "Although I will admit that Crouch was actually a decent teacher—at least he knew his stuff."

"That's nothing," one of the twins spoke up.

"Yeah, in our first year, our Defense professor didn't even last until Halloween," said the other.

Angelina rolled her eyes. "And her replacement didn't make it past the end of the year himself."

"There you have it, Fleur," said Harry. "Defense has always been a problem like the Headmaster said. Only once in my time at Hogwarts has the professor been competent _and_ on our side!"

"Then how have you managed up until now?" Fleur demanded.

"We've had to fend for ourselves," was Harry's simple reply. "We used the textbooks—when they weren't Lockhart's fiction, anyway—and practiced on our own."

"But that's not going to happen this year," contradicted Hermione. "Not with Umbridge watching us like a hawk."

"Perhaps there is a way around it?" Fleur suggested. "We learned some things from Auror Moody this summer. Is there a way for us to get some more books and practice on our own?"

Hermione chewed on her lower lip, deep in thought. "We'd have to make sure it doesn't get back to Umbridge."

"Would Dumbledore support us?" asked Ron.

Hermione shook her head. "It would be best if we didn't involve the Headmaster. If it got back to Umbridge that he had helped us, it may give her a reason to see him removed from the school."

It was a quandary, but there had to be some solution which they had not come up with yet. If they needed to fend for themselves, then that was what they would have to do. Still, without a teacher, it would be very difficult. Surely something would come up to improve the situation. At least, Fleur hoped something would present itself. It would be a long year with Umbridge at the helm otherwise.

* * *

_Updated 05/23/2013  
_


	15. Chapter 14 – Avoiding Detention

**Chapter 14 – Avoiding Detention**

The rest of the week passed in relative quiet for the circle of friends. Harry went to the second potions class of the week, wondering if the treatment Fleur had received from Snape was due to the Headmaster coming down on him, or if she had merely been granted a reprieve. Happily, it appeared to be the former as, other than a few glares, Snape largely left Harry alone—in fact, he said very little to any of the Gryffindors outside of his normal instruction. This, of course, pleased the entire Gryffindor contingent, though perhaps Neville and Harry wore the largest grins.

Fleur and Harry received a letter from her father on Friday, asking how their first week of schooling went, though when they read between the lines, they could both see he was asking about certain professors in particular. Fleur responded positively for the most part, in that, though the woman had tried to bait Harry into a detention, nothing of note had happened, as he had kept his temper in check, and Snape was by that time a non-issue.

In Jean-Sebastian's letter, however, his frustration with the fact that Fudge was doing nothing about Voldemort's return was readily apparent. The group had been watching the Prophet closely enough to know that the Minister persisted in denying the Dark Lord's return, flatly refusing to hear anyone who tried to tell him otherwise. As a result, Auror recruitment and training continued to proceed at the same inadequate levels, and the Ministry forces were significantly lagging behind the Death Eaters, who were, without a doubt, not neglecting their own training and recruiting efforts. Though he was not explicit, Fleur was led to suspect that her father had been in more or less continual contact with Dumbledore about the situation, but that his own position as ambassador did not leave him any room to pressure Fudge, much though he would have wished he could.

Of note in the school, Umbridge had been seen speaking with to some of the more rabid extremist Slytherins—of whom it was not surprising that Malfoy took center stage. After discussing it at some length, the group could only assume she was intent upon ingratiating herself to them, and promising rewards for information and their cooperation. Thus far nothing had come of this cozying up, but Harry in particular was worried that whatever reason the toad had to curry favor with the Slytherins, it appeared to be preparatory for whatever she had planned for the future. An interesting side note, however, was the fact that though many would have expected Snape to agree with Umbridge in principle, the reality appeared to be the complete opposite—he in fact appeared to avoid her as though she carried a rather virulent disease, conversing with her in short, clipped language when discourse was unavoidable.

Harry, Fleur and Ron had their first official practice with the Quidditch team that weekend, and though Fleur was not actually a starter, she found that she enjoyed the practice, and more importantly, the camaraderie of the team. Though she certainly did not possess the skills or the familiarity with her teammates that Katie, Angelina, and Alicia had with each other, Angelina was still able to comment that either she or Ginny would make admirable substitutions, should they be necessary. The Quidditch team was supremely confident for the upcoming Quidditch cup—on parchment, none of the other teams appeared to stack up.

And of course, Ron continued in his attempts to get closer to Hermione, oblivious to the fact that she _was not_ responding the way a young woman who was _willing_ to be courted would be expected to respond. Or perhaps it was more likely that he was so set upon winning her that he was almost willingly obtuse to the fact that she simply was not interested. Hermione did not want to make a scene, nor did she wish to hurt him, but she felt he was ultimately going to force her to do so. It was a sticky business, and she was not certain how Ron would respond—not well, if she knew him at all.

At potions class the next Monday, Harry made certain to continue to keep his head down, do his potions work, and avoid drawing the professor's ire. And though he was feeling a little more confident in his brewing abilities—partially from his generally greater confidence those days, and partially from the better atmosphere in the class—he was not so confident that the professor would let up on him. Besides, he knew that Snape was so set against him that regardless of whatever had passed between professor and Headmaster, avoidance was still the best policy.

On that day, however, though Snape generally stayed away from him, Harry would often look up and find the potions professor's baleful glare fixated on him, accompanied by the man's customary sneer. It was truly annoying to the young man, but though he would have preferred to have called the greasy bat out for it, the warnings about not giving his enemies anything to hold over him still filled his mind, and he declined to incite a confrontation.

Unfortunately Snape was not of the same mind. The class was ending and the students were packing their things and beginning to file out when the hated man's voice rang out.

"Potter! Stay after class. I have something to discuss with you."

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione, who whispered that she, Neville, and Ron would wait outside for him, before indicating his assent to the professor. He sat down at his desk, watching the other students leave, ignoring the almost gleeful derision on Malfoy's face. Once they were gone, he sat at his desk, waiting for Snape to begin. The man seemed disinclined to begin—he simply stared at Harry, showing his dislike and contempt. Harry said nothing. Harry was not uncomfortable—he refused to be uncomfortable!—but he would not start anything with the professor and give him the excuse to hand out the punishments he so relished.

At length Snape stood and approached Harry's desk. "So, you found it necessary to complain to the Headmaster about me."

"I did."

"And now I suppose you wish special treatment in my class, the same as you receive in any other class?"

Harry only refrained from rolling his eyes by the slimmest of margins. "I do not, sir. I expect to be treated the same as any other student."

"Your arrogance knows no bounds, Potter."

"How can it be arrogance to expect to be treated the same as anyone else?"

Snape said nothing. He merely continued to glare at Harry, his hatred and contempt still plain for all to see. The two emotions were ones which Harry felt he could return quite cheerfully, and in equal measure.

"I have done nothing to earn your hatred, Professor," Harry continued, still careful to refrain from giving this man any ammunition to use against him. "All I ever did was to show up on my first day of classes. You appeared then to already dislike me before you even knew me. Why?"

"You are too much like your father," Snape spat. "_He_ was a blight upon this school, always running wild with those friends of his, always strutting around the school like he owned it."

"Sounds like a certain blond ponce I know," was Harry's sarcastic reply.

"Do not interrupt me! We were speaking of your father and no one else."

"Oh really?" This time Harry was not able to keep the scorn out of his voice. "I thought we were talking about me? I asked you why you hated me from the beginning, and you talk about my father's arrogance and how I mirrored him, but you did not even take the time to get to know me before you made that judgment."

Snape's eyes narrowed, and though Harry knew he had scored a significant point, he knew there was no way the professor would acknowledge it. He said nothing, however, which allowed Harry to continue.

"I'm afraid I cannot know how much like my father I am. You see, _he's dead!_" Harry barked. Though the admission that his parents were not with him had always been painful, Harry forced himself to be blunt with his recalcitrant professor. "I was too young to know my father when he died. So you see, Professor, any resemblance between my father and me is a result of genetics and chance—nothing more."

"Believe me, Potter, you are just like your arrogant father."

Rising to his feet, Harry fixed a glare on the man. "Professor, may I speak bluntly?"

A raised eyebrow met his question. "Are you not doing so now?"

"After a fashion. However, I'd like to be able to speak my mind as you are so obviously doing. No detentions, no point deductions—just you and me clearing the air."

Seeming to be intrigued, Snape peered at him contemplatively. "Very well then. Everything said in this room is completely off the record until further notice, or until you leave the room. Now, I believe you have something to say?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said with a tight nod. "It may come as no surprise to you, but I hate you as much as you obviously hate me. But where I am forced to show you _respect_ as a professor—which you have in no way earned, I might add—you feel free to belittle me, and behave as though I am something disgusting you wiped from your shoes. You are a vile, bitter, and contemptuous man, with very few redeeming qualities, and your abilities as a potions master in no way compensate for your utter failure as a professor. Your behavior is atrocious, and in the Muggle world you would have lost your position years ago. You have disliked me because of something which happened between you and my father before I was even born, and you have never once attempted to look past my resemblance to my father and to see the person _I am_, rather than what you thought I would be.

"What you continue to fail to understand is that I don't know who my father was as a person, and as such, I can hardly emulate him, whether I want to or not. He may have been an arrogant git like you say. He may have acted like he owned the school and everything in it. In fact, he may have acted like the very world owed him everything on a silver platter. I wouldn't know. I can tell you that he could hardly be worse that that little Pureblood idiot you are so intent upon protecting, so it seems to me that on top of everything else, you are a hypocrite as well as a bully.

"The point of this discussion is that I've had to put up with every bit of abuse that you thought you could get away with, ever since I came to this school. I will not continue to do so. One way or another, your treatment of me _will cease_, or I will do everything in my power to see you lose your precious position, and I expect that an entire generation of Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw students will laud my name after you are booted from this school in disgrace!"

Silence reigned in the room after Harry's rant, and though he would have liked to break it, Harry had had his say, and he would wait to see what Snape said in response. It appeared that his outburst had done no overt damage—it was not like it was possible to _further_ damage their relationship. In fact, the Professor's demeanor had softened slightly, and he now looked at Harry with a speculative eye.

"I suppose there is no disputing your courage," Snape finally said.

"I would imagine that is why the hat placed me in Gryffindor," was Harry's dry reply.

He was not going to touch on the fact that he had specifically requested that the hat _not_ place him in Slytherin. He had no idea how Snape would respond to _that_ piece of information. Perhaps dancing with joy that the hat _had not_ placed him in Slytherin was just as likely a reaction as anything else.

"Quite," Snape responded.

After peering at Harry for a few more moments, Snape appeared to come to a resolution. "Very well then, Potter. As long as you keep your nose clean in class and do your work with a certain level of competence, I shall leave you alone. Will that do?"

"What about Malfoy?" Harry asked.

"What about him?" was the dark reply.

"Come on, Professor, you are not blind. Malfoy is a thorn in my side whenever he gets the chance. He taunts me and my friends, tries to get us in detention, and attempts to sabotage our potions whenever he thinks he can get away with it. Considering the fact that _you_ are teaching this class, he thinks he can get away with it with whenever he likes. I can keep my head down and do my best in class, but I guarantee that if Malfoy tries something, my response will not be to his liking. I will not allow that little prick to attack any of my friends any longer."

"You are lucky that this all off the record, or you would have lost some of Miss Granger's hard-earned points."

"Which is why I asked," was Harry's response. "You don't think I'd be so blunt unless I was certain it was off the record, do you? I'm not _that_ stupid."

Snape snorted. "Though I hate to say it, it's very Slytherin of you, Potter. I will deal with Mr. Malfoy."

"Very well, Professor."

Nodding his head, Harry picked up his backpack and sauntered from the room. The fact that Snape's eyes continued to bore into his back as he left did not escape him.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked when he joined his friends.

"Nothing much," Harry said with a wink. "Just clearing the air a little with the Professor."

"Did you punch his lights out?" asked Ron with a grin.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Perhaps you should do that, Ronald, if you want to have detention for the rest of your time at Hogwarts."

"It might actually be worth it," said Neville. "At least it would be satisfying."

The group laughed as they started down the hall.

"I agree with Neville," said Harry. "But no, I didn't punch him. Like I said, we cleared the air a little. Hopefully, we'll have less trouble with Snape from now on."

* * *

By the time the fifth years had reached the Defense classroom later that afternoon, Harry had related the story of his discussion with Snape to all of his friends. Fleur in particular seemed to be extremely pleased by the turn of events. But though word that _something_ had occurred between Harry and the potions professor had spread through the school very quickly, Harry asked those who were aware of the exact nature of the confrontation to keep it quiet. He did not want Snape to get the idea that he was spreading their private dealings to all and sundry—his new truce with the potions professor was too new and fragile, he sensed, to take it lightly.

Malfoy, however, appeared perplexed. He had obviously suspected that something was up when Harry had been told to stay behind, but seeing Harry laughing with his friends rather than seething at his treatment was clearly not what he had expected. As they were leaving the hall, Harry caught a look of discontent upon the face of his nemesis, which darkened even further when Harry flipped him a jaunty salute. At that moment, it occurred to Harry that he had still not heard what Malfoy's reaction had been to learning he had been assigned Harry's detention—_that_ outcome could not be fueling any good temper for the Malfoy scion. Harry supposed that Snape had told the blond ponce to accept the detention and keep his mouth closed, though Harry was surprised that Malfoy had listened, if such had been the case.

Though one of his Monday classes appeared to have changed for the better, the other dreaded class—which ironically would have been his favorite in previous years, regardless of the Headmaster's inability to provide a proper professor—would prove that it still had the capacity to infuriate him.

Defense that day was much the same as it had been the previous week. Umbridge still demanded they put their wands away as soon as the students entered the class, and she once again lectured directly from the text. In truth, had the subject matter still not held some interest for Harry, regardless of the less than stellar textbook, he would have been in danger of considering Defense to be almost the equal of History for its ability to numb his mind into sheer insensibility.

What changed, however, was the fact that for the most part, Umbridge completely ignored him, even when he wanted to say something, which was very infrequent. It was nearing the end of class when Harry raised his hand to speak—and was ignored—for the third time, as Umbridge called on Hannah Abbot to answer a question she had posed. Harry raised an eyebrow at Hermione, who returned his gesture with a smirk of her own.

"Looks like someone has a new tactic," Harry whispered.

"It would seem to be so," Hermione responded.

Their short tete-a-tete, however, served to draw the professor's attention. She peered at him with her patently false and irritating silly smile, and asked him in her high voice, "Did you have something to say, Mr. Potter? Did I not instruct the class to raise your hands when you have something to say? Perhaps you would like to share with the class what you and Miss Granger were speaking of?"

Grimacing, Harry responded, "I was merely pointing out that I haven't been able to answer a question yet this class, Professor."

"Well, Mr. Potter, if I had known you were so eager to participate in class, I would have called upon you sooner."

"Thank you, Professor. It is good to know that I am a valued member."

Umbridge peered at him suspiciously, before she broke out into her sickly sweet smile once again. "Indeed, Mr. Potter. However, there is still the matter of your speaking out of turn, and I'm afraid that you and Miss Granger will have to serve a detention. It seems I must prove my point that I wish to have discipline in this class."

Very much wishing he could respond to the woman, Harry nevertheless calmed himself and kept quiet. It was no doubt part of the woman's plan to attack him, and though he was not certain if this was a detention which the Headmaster would overturn, he thought that at the very least it would be a good idea to inform him of what had happened.

"Very good, Mr. Potter—it appears you can control your trouble-making nature if you so choose. Perhaps we shall be able to make a proper wizard out of you yet."

Even that failed to raise a response from Harry—the woman's opinion meant less than that of a flobberworm to him, after all. Umbridge appeared to have a slight air of disappointment to her manner at being unable to obtain a rise out of him. However, her sudden change thereafter to studied nonchalance made him instantly suspicious.

"You shall serve detention…" she trailed off while tapping her wand on her chin in what Harry was convinced was a false show of considering the situation.

Her face suddenly lit up with glee. "Yes, your detention shall be served on Thursday, immediately before dinner." She all but sneered at Harry. "As I will be away from Hogwarts that day on Wizengamot business, you shall serve your detention with Professor Snape, and I will be certain to ensure he has something… suitable for you both to do."

"But that's the day of Sirius's trial!" Harry blurted out, immediately guessing the thrust of the woman's actions. "I've received permission to attend with Professor Dumbledore."

"Now, now, Mr. Potter," soothed Umbridge. "We can't have students who are scheduled for detention leave the school on an obviously unnecessary field trip—it's not fair to the other students."

"It's not fair for you to assign a detention on a day which means so much to me," Harry snapped in response.

"Perhaps one day is not enough for you," cooed Umbridge. "You and Miss Granger will serve your Thursday detention with Professor Snape, and then you will serve Friday, Saturday, and Sunday with me."

Harry saw red, and was almost ready to tear into the woman, but Hermione's presence by his side, coupled with the hand she laid on his shoulder, reminded him of the need to keep his cool. He looked away from Umbridge, while allowing an emotionless mask to descend over his face, and he ignored the woman for the rest of the class—she did not call on him either, though she did glance smugly in his direction several times before the bell rang.

At the end of the class, Harry slammed his textbook in his bag, and stalked from the room, barely aware of his friends attempting to catch him as he strode through the halls of Hogwarts.

"Harry, will you hold up a moment?" Hermione shouted.

He almost caused Hermione to run into him, he pulled up so abruptly.

"Where are you going?" she demanded once she had regained her balance.

"Dumbledore," was Harry's short reply. "What she did was not fair—I'm not going to let her get away with it."

Turning to look at Neville and Ron, who had hurried to catch up, Harry motioned them away. "Go ahead with Hermione to the Great Hall—I'll be there when I finish speaking with the Headmaster."

Ron and Neville nodded, but Hermione dug in her heels. "No way, Harry. You'll need someone to back you up—I'm coming too."

The fact that Harry felt he did not exactly require help with the Headmaster gave way to the idea of the comfort he knew Hermione's presence would bring. He nodded briefly to her before turning and marching off down the hallway which led toward the Headmaster's office.

Once they had gained admission to the office, they entered, earning a raised eyebrow from the elderly Headmaster.

"I take it something else has happened?" he inquired mildly. "Is this to be a regular occurrence, Harry?"

"I hope not, sir," Harry responded with a tight grin.

Dumbledore peered at Harry for several moments. "I did some checking earlier, and other than your rumored discussion with Professor Snape, nothing of significance happened in your potions class. Can I therefore assume that your current problem as nothing to do with potions?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry. "There was a bit of an incident in Defense, and Umbridge assigned me an unfair detention that I'd like you to review."

Nodding, Dumbledore said, "Very well, please proceed."

Being careful not to omit anything, yet give the Headmaster a detailed explanation of what exactly happened, Harry related the story of the confrontation with the Defense Professor. It took only a few moments for the entire tale to be related, after which Dumbledore sat back in his chair and regarded the teens thoughtfully.

"Unfortunately, Harry, there is nothing I can do about the original detention—it is the professor's prerogative as to how they run their class, and how they enforce discipline."

"But, sir," Hermione exclaimed, "that's completely unfair and beyond the type of punishment which should be assessed for whispering in class."

"I don't disagree with you, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore. "However, technically, she has the right to assess a detention. But that doesn't mean we can't modify the terms of that detention."

Feeling some relief that by Dumbledore's implication, he would not have to miss Sirius's trial, Harry asked, "You said the first detention. Can you do something about the other one?"

"_That_ is a different matter," said Dumbledore firmly. "Though perhaps your protests could be construed as backtalk if one were to so choose, I believe the stress of the situation led to your responding as you did. As such, we shall call Professor Umbridge in to hear her explanation, after which I will make my final decision. After all, I am certain it is in our best interests that you not serve a detention with the professor for now. Wouldn't you agree?"

Agreeing with a grin, Harry watched as the Headmaster approached his Floo connection, and threw a handful of Floo powder into it, calling for the Defense Professor's office. After a moment, the fiery visage of Professor Umbridge, looking even more ridiculous than usual, appeared in the flames.

"Ah, Professor Umbridge," said Dumbledore in greeting. "Will you please step into my office for a moment?"

A moment later, the Headmaster had retreated from the fireplace to allow the Defense professor to step through. She immediately noticed the students sitting facing the desk and donned her simpering mask, though Harry would clearly see that she was not happy at all to see them.

"Yes, Headmaster? Is there a problem?" she simpered.

"I'm afraid there is, Professor," replied Dumbledore while returning to his chair. "Mr. Potter here has come to me to appeal a detention which you assigned to him in Defense class, and in the course of my investigation, I have called you here to hear your reasons for assigning this detention."

Umbridge's eyes narrowed. "I was not aware that I had to justify my decisions to fifth-year students."

"You do not to the students, of course," responded the Headmaster. "However, in the case where a student invokes the appeals process, you must account for your actions to me. Mr. Potter has given me his account of what occurred in your Defense class, and now I must hear your reasons before I render a judgment."

The familiar sweet smile once again appeared on her face. "Of course, Headmaster. Very well—I assigned a detention for speaking out in class. I have been trying to instill discipline in my class and these two students were speaking out of turn."

"Yes. Mr. Potter has admitted to whispering in class."

"Then why are we having this discussion?"

"Because you subsequently assigned another three days when Mr. Potter protested, not to mention you specifically assigned the original detention on the day you knew Harry would be absent from the school to attend his godfather's trial."

"I assure you I did no such thing, Headmaster, and I resent these two _students_," the word was almost sneered, "implicating otherwise."

"And I assure you, Professor, that I am well able to make the connection myself without Mr. Potter or Miss Granger's assistance," rejoined the Headmaster. "Have you anything further to add?"

"Not at all, Headmaster. I saw a violation of my classroom rules and I reacted accordingly. As for Mr. Potter's subsequent detentions, I will not tolerate any cheek in my class."

"Very well then," replied Dumbledore. "Obviously, though I believe your punishment for whispering in class is excessive, I will agree that it is your right to assign the level of punishment you deem fit. However, demanding Mr. Potter attend a detention on the day his Godfather is to be tried and thereby preventing his attendance is unreasonably cruel. Therefore, Mr. Potter and Miss Granger will instead serve their detentions this evening with their head of house and not Professor Snape."

It was easy to tell Umbridge was not happy with the Headmaster's decision, but she merely smiled before saying, "Very well, Headmaster. However, as I am available tonight, Mr. Potter and Miss Granger may serve their detentions with me."

"I have already made my decision, Professor Umbridge," Dumbledore snapped in response. "You will abide by it.

"As for the matter of Mr. Potter's subsequent detentions," he stated when the Defense Professor would have interjected, "there is no basis in fact for those detentions to be assigned, particularly in light of the fact that the subject being discussed was one which is highly emotional to Mr. Potter. Those detentions are hereby reversed."

"This is one of the reasons I was sent here," Umbridge hissed. "Your continual and blatant favoritism toward Mr. Potter and his friends must cease immediately, Headmaster!

"Or perhaps I should speak with the Minister about your blatant bias," she continued with an attempt at nonchalance.

Dumbledore's eyes appeared to flare briefly, but he made no response to Umbridge. He, instead, turned to Harry. "Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, I think we have dealt with the matter about which you inquired. Is there anything else you would like to say at this time?"

"No sir," Harry replied after glancing at Hermione. It appeared that whatever was to be said in the subsequent conversation between the Headmaster and Defense Professor was not meant for their ears to hear.

"Very well then—you may leave. Please report to Professor McGonagall at seven this evening for your detention. I will ensure she knows you are coming."

Agreeing to this, the two teens stood and retreated from the room. When they had made their way down to the hallway beyond the gargoyle guardian, Harry turned to Hermione with a grin.

"Looks like someone's in trouble," he said in a singsong voice.

"Harry!" Hermione scolded, though a matching grin was etched upon her face. "That's the kind of attitude that saw us in the office in the first place."

Harry shook his head. "It looks like she really wants me in detention. We'll have to be very careful."

Hermione agreed and together they headed in the direction of the Great Hall.

* * *

As soon as the door closed behind the two students, Albus allowed the mask of congeniality slip from his face. He fixed a stern glare at the Defense Professor, allowing every bit of his distaste for the woman to show in his expression.

"Madam Umbridge, must I remind you that I am the Headmaster of this institution?"

"A Headmaster who has perhaps passed his prime," said Umbridge in response. Her accompanying sneer would have made Snape himself proud. "And you will refer to me as 'Professor Umbridge,' Headmaster,"

Albus snorted with some disdain. "In public, perhaps, when I have no other choice. In private, however, I will not refer to you with an honorific which you have not earned."

Though her nostrils flared in anger, Albus watched her as she struggled to come up with a response. His rejoinder was the truth, after all, and there was little she could do to refute the fact.

"Let us not obfuscate, Madam," Albus continued after allowing her to stew for a moment. "You are not in this school to improve the quality of education or the atmosphere, or whatever other platitudes you are attempting to push on the student body or the public at large. You are here precisely to attempt to marginalize Harry and discredit me, all because of your narrow views of the world, and the Minister's short-sighted fear that I will attempt to replace him. You should remind Minister Fudge that I could have had the Minister's post had I wanted it when Minister Bagnold retired. I did not want it then, and do not want it now, as I already have more than enough on my plate.

"However, I _am_ and _will remain_ the Headmaster of this school, and as such, I am responsible not only for its running, but also for matters such as the adjudicating of appeals. My judgment stands as I have already said. In the future, if you feel you must make an object lesson due to such a minor breach of your classroom rules, I suggest that you deduct points from the offenders. For an infraction such as Mr. Potter and Miss Granger brought before me today, a detention is much too severe."

Though it was obvious Umbridge was furious, she merely nodded tightly. "Very well, Headmaster, but I shall warn you that if you continue to blatantly protect troublemakers such as Mr. Potter, you may very well find yourself removed from your position."

"And I will warn _you_, that continued attempts to attack Mr. Potter—or any other student at this institution—will result in _your_ removal, Madam Umbridge. Given the fact that your very competence in the subject you teach is suspect—you do not even hold a NEWT in Defense!—I doubt anyone other than your precious Minister would protest such a move. Do I make myself clear?"

"Quite," snapped Umbridge.

Without any further words or even a glance, she returned to her own office via the Floo, leaving Albus to his thoughts. The necessity of having the woman at Hogwarts was galling, but at that moment, he knew he had no choice but to accept her presence. Regardless of his words to her, he knew he needed an airtight reason to remove her from the school, allowing him to replace her with a professor of his own choice. He had someone in mind, but the timing was not correct at the moment, not that he would have hesitated had he possessed a valid reason for her removal at present.

Thinking about the matter for several moments, Albus worried about the situation. He certainly _did not_ need Jean-Sebastian's intervention in the matter, which would certainly come about if Umbridge could not be reined in. Perhaps at some point it would be prudent to allow Harry to have a detention with the woman—carefully controlled of course—to discover exactly what she wanted with him. He was not certain at present what the woman intended, but he would not put it past her to go too far—then maybe he would have his ammunition to have her removed.

After a few more moments of thought, Albus let out a weary sigh and rose from his chair. Popping a lemon drop in his mouth, he exited his office and made his way toward the Great Hall, his mind working the problem over and over as he walked.

* * *

Having made their way to dinner, Hermione sat down across the table from Harry, her mind chewing over the problem which Defense had presented that year. This year's class was turning out to be far worse than it had been in any previous year, which was saying a lot, considering the comedy of errors Defense had been for almost the entirety of her schooling career. How would they possibly pass their OWLs this year with Umbridge at the helm? Unfortunately, no answers came, regardless of her will to discover some sort of way to alleviate the problem. A part of her wanted to suggest anew that they try to have some competent adult join them on weekends to give them some tutoring, but having witnessed Umbridge's _teaching_ thus far, and her Ministry-driven insistence that the students not be allowed to practice _dangerous and unnecessary spellcasting_, she knew that the idea of tutoring would not go over well. And Dumbledore appeared to believe that directly opposing the woman at the moment time was not prudent, so unfortunately, whatever they attempted would have to be done in secret.

Pushing the thoughts away for contemplation at some other time, Hermione focused on what her friends were saying, only to find out that her thoughts were similar to the topic of conversation. Evidently Harry had told Fleur of the confrontation in Defense, and the subsequent meeting in the Headmaster's office, for she appeared quite distressed.

"What are we going to do about Umbridge?" Hermione heard Fleur ask. "I've got NEWTs this year, and it's going to be difficult to pass the practical if we aren't able to practice the spells in advance."

"And we have OWLs," said Hermione, chewing her lip in agitation.

"That doesn't even account for Voldemort's return," added Ron. "At this rate, we won't even know enough to defend ourselves."

"We did learn some things from Moody this summer," Neville disagreed.

"Yeah, but we haven't been able to practice much of it," retorted Ron.

Neville held out his hands in supplication before returning his attention to his meal.

"We all know the problem, Ron," said Hermione. "We just need to find a solution."

"Hello everyone," a dreamy voice interrupted.

Hermione looked up and saw Luna standing behind Harry, smiling absentmindedly. Harry turned and, smiling at Luna, he scooted a little closer to Fleur. "Would you like to join us, Luna?" he asked.

Smiling, Luna sat down beside him, and greeted the entire group. "Thanks, Harry. It's a little disconcerting being the only non-Gryffindor in our group. But the Ravenclaws don't really like me very much—I'd much prefer to eat with you."

"Then the Ravenclaws are stupid, Luna," Neville replied seriously from her other side. "You're welcome to join us at any time."

A general murmur of agreement made its way through the group. Though perhaps a student sitting at any table other than their own was not something which happened often, it was not disallowed. They all truly liked Luna and considered her a friend, so everyone was glad to have her join them.

"Besides, the nargles told me you were speaking of a particular problem."

It was difficult, but Hermione just managed to avoid rolling her eyes. She liked Luna—she truly did—but sometimes the girl's whimsical nature and preoccupation with her creatures was enough to drive Hermione nutty. This was a serious issue they were discussing, after all.

"We're just trying to figure out what to do about Defense," said Harry. "We've got important tests at the end of the year that we won't pass if we can't practice."

"That and we need to practice more fighting like Professor Moody said," Neville chimed in.

"Why don't you start a defense club?" asked Luna, while filling her plate with food.

Hermione looked at Luna blankly. "A defense club?"

"Yes," replied Luna. "Anyone can start up a club with permission. In this case, I think you'd probably prefer to keep the club secret from all the staff, and I wouldn't blame you for that. It would provide us with the opportunity to the spells we need to know and learn how to better protect ourselves at the same time."

"Umbridge wouldn't like it," said Harry, voicing the obvious problem.

"Who says she has to know?" asked Fleur. "If we only invite certain people, she would never even have to know that it exists."

"That's got possibilities," said Hermione, beginning to become excited about the idea. "We could get Harry to lead it."

The general agreement at Hermione's statement did not, unfortunately, include the beneficiary of her largesse. Harry blinked in surprise, and then regarded Hermione with some befuddlement.

"Why me?"

"You're the best at defense, Harry," Hermione said, deciding that a simple reply was likely to go much farther with her friend. "You always get a spell after the first few tries, and you always help others get it after, which shows a certain flair for teaching."

Harry still looked skeptical. "I'm not so sure about that, Hermione. Besides, if we could form a club, I think it would be best to get someone in a higher year to run it—they have more experience than I do."

"Don't look at me," Fleur protested, noting where Harry had attempted to deflect the suggestion. "I can hold my own in defense, but Hermione's right—no one can match you, either in sheer power or understanding."

Harry's noncommittal shrug indicated an end to the discussion, and though Hermione would have liked to press the issue further, she sensed from Harry's demeanor that now was not the time. He was very stubborn, and this issue appeared to be one in which he would dig in his heels. They would need to discuss it further at a later date. For now, the two Gryffindors were due for detention, so they finished their dinner and bade farewell to their companions, making their way toward the Transfiguration Professor's office.

* * *

The very next day was Hermione's birthday, and as Fleur's birthday was also coming up a few days later, they had decided to make a joint celebration of it, even inviting Luna to join them in the Gryffindor common room for the celebration. Though she knew Harry would never forget her birthday—he never had in their previous four years at Hogwarts—the fact that the rest of her friends also pitched in to make her birthday a special occasion touched her deeply. She was certain Fleur felt the same way, if her brilliant smiles and warm words toward Harry were any indication.

They sat in a corner of the common room, drinking butterbeer—which the twins had somehow managed to procure—while eating snacks and birthday cake, provided by the ever-excitable Dobby. She had received presents from most of those with whom she was close, but none were as personal as the ones she had received Harry and Fleur.

Harry had thoughtfully purchased her a set of personalized etching tools for her Runes class, knowing how much she enjoyed the class. Each tool was exquisitely hand-crafted and the entire set was stored in a fine lacquered case of dark cherry wood, with her name surrounded in delicate electrum filigree emblazoned along the lower right corner of the case. Harry jokingly told her that it was also in thanks for assisting him with his understanding of Runes, something for which she was surprised to note he had some aptitude.

As for Fleur, her new friend had purchased her a fine French charm bracelet with several charms. In particular, there was a stylized heart charm which had the inscription 'Toujours Amies' etched upon its surface. It was a thoughtful gift indeed, which prompted Hermione's teary thank you, in which she captured the French witch in a fierce embrace.

As for Fleur, she also received gifts, though perhaps not as many as Hermione had, due, no doubt, to the fact that she had only been known in Gryffindor since the beginning of the year. Still, all their friends had procured presents for Fleur, though the finest by far was the finely crafted white gold locket in the shape of a stylized heart Harry had given her. And Hermione herself responded to Fleur's gift by purchasing her new friend a pair of designer jeans she had seen Fleur looking at one day while they had been shopping.

Fleur had truly begun to become a good friend, and the two were becoming very close. Hermione was also thankful to Fleur for not pushing her to accept the arrangement she had proposed on the last day of summer holidays. Instead, she seemed willing to allow Hermione to consider it on her own, while always being available to talk if she wished it.

It was truly the best birthday Hermione had ever had, and she stayed up quite late with all of her friends, talking and laughing, and for once, she allowed all thoughts of homework and classes to slip away in favor of simply having fun with her friends. It did not hurt, of course, that she had already finished everything due for that week.

As night wore on, more of her friends announced their intentions to retire, eventually leaving Hermione alone with Harry, Fleur, and Ron. Something about the way Ron had acted all evening—he had been quieter than normal, while watching her intently—suggested to Hermione that tonight would finally be the night he got off the fence and made whatever intentions he had toward her known. Hermione did not wish to hurt Ron—that was the last thing she wanted to do—but this continual doomed effort to get her to notice him was wearing on her, and she welcomed the opportunity to set the record straight.

Apparently Fleur had noticed the same thing. She glanced at Hermione and winked when the two boys were speaking together and she was certain they were not watching. She then stood and pulled Harry to his feet with her.

"I think it's time to go to bed," she suggested.

Harry smiled and nodded, turning to Ron. "Coming Ron?"

"That's… Well, what I mean to say is… erm…" Ron stammered incoherently, almost setting Fleur and Hermione to giggling. "I have… something… Yeah, something to… to ask Hermione," the redhead finally finished, his cheeks turning pink with embarrassment.

Finally, _that_ seemed to percolate its way through Harry's eternal obliviousness. He slyly grinned at Ron. "Oh, okay. If I don't see you before I go to sleep, have a good night."

Ron mumbled his agreement, while Harry and Fleur headed off together, parting at the stairs to head up to their respective dormitories.

Alone with Ron, Hermione waited patiently for several minutes for Ron to finally get up the courage to make his move. However, Ron just fidgeted and eyed her in what he probably thought was a surreptitious manner.

"Yes, Ron?" Hermione prompted gently. "You had something you wanted to ask me?"

"Umm… Yeah," was Ron's reply. "You know… we've been friends for a few years now, and I really… umm… I really like you, Hermione. And I kind of thought, what better day to… ask the girl you… like… to be your girlfriend… What better day than on her birthday?" he finished in a rush

"That's sweet, Ron," said Hermione. And it was—she had not thought he had it in him. But regardless of how much of a gentleman he was trying to be, Hermione would not be swayed.

"Yeah," he said with a grin. "I figured it would be a good idea, though the b—"

He stopped abruptly and his cheeks slightly pinked. Hermione had no idea what he was about to say—it almost sounded like he had had some advice from some other source. Regardless, it did not matter—if someone was encouraging him, then they were not seeing the true situation.

"So, now that you're my girlfriend, can I kiss you or something?"

_ That_ brought Hermione up short.

"Hold on, Ron!" she cried. He looked at her puzzled, no doubt wondering what he had done wrong.

"I'm sorry, Ron," she continued more gently, "but I'm afraid I have to say no."

"What?" a befuddled Ron asked, appearing shell-shocked.

"I'm sorry, Ron," Hermione repeated. "I understand your feelings, but mine aren't the same. I see you as a close brother, but nothing more."

Though his mouth moved soundlessly for a few moments, Hermione could see a hint of redness working its way up Ron's neck and ears, a sure sign that he was working up a head of steam.

"A brother?" Ron demanded. "I've been acting like as much of gentleman as I can, trying to learn what you like, how to make you happy, putting myself on the line here, and this is how you treat me?"

Hermione sighed—she could have predicted this was how Ron would respond.

"Ron," she said very gently, "I'm sorry, but I can't return your feelings."

Ron's jaw worked as he tried to control his anger, but when he finally spoke, his words did not make a lot of sense. "It won't happen, you know." He was almost forcing the words out through his teeth, he was so visibly upset.

Nonplused, Hermione tilted her head to one side. "I'm sorry?"

"Harry is already taken, Hermione, but it seems like you still have designs on him. You may as well give up your fantasy—he has no way to get out of his betrothal, so he'll never date you."

"You think I'm holding out for Harry," Hermione slowly repeated.

"It's obvious," was Ron's offhand reply. "I've seen you watching him, you know. You and I can be really good together, Hermione, and you have no chance with Harry. I think you should go out with me."

Hermione forbore to mention that she knew about the possibility of a multiple marriage, not to mention the fact that Fleur was already trying to get her to enter into her own relationship with Harry. It would only make Ron even angrier and less willing to accept her rejection.

"Oh Ron, the reason I don't want to date you is not because of Harry," Hermione said firmly. "I am well aware of the marriage contract, and I know that Harry is tied to it. I _am not_ hoping that Harry will date me when he already has Fleur—Harry is too honorable to cheat on her like that, and I wouldn't do that to Fleur, either."

"Then why won't you go out with me? I'm as good as Harry." His voice had taken on a slightly whining quality as he tried to wheedle her into a relationship.

"I told you, Ron, I don't think we are compatible. And you shouldn't compare yourself with Harry—it makes it very clear that you still have some jealousy issues with him. I was not comparing you and Harry, and neither should you."

"I am not jealous of Harry," Ron denied vehemently, his voice becoming rather loud.

"Ron, just listen to me," Hermione pleaded, leaning closer to him and lowering her voice. "I think that a lot of your behavior around Harry—especially since the Triwizard—has been because of your jealousy. You shouldn't feel jealous of him—he doesn't want his fame, or anything that comes with it, you know."

"You just have to bring up the tournament again, don't you?" said Ron. "I already said I was wrong—what more do you want?"

"I don't want anything, Ron," was Hermione's simple reply. "I was not the one who was hurt when you called Harry a liar. You may think that it's water under the bridge, but I can tell you that Harry still doesn't trust you fully like he used to. You never really discussed the situation or apologized to him, and I think that you should so you can both finally put it behind you."

"But… But… Harry told me just to forget it!" Ron said hotly.

"But that's just _Harry_, Ron," Hermione rejoined. "You know how he is. Despite what he said, though, he was still hurt by it, and you owe him an apology."

Ron's eyes narrowed. "You've been talking with Harry about this stuff behind my back?"

"No, Ron," Hermione responded firmly. "I _know_ how Harry feels, but he has never told me."

"You're changing the subject."

"I think it's more proper to say that I've _changed_ the subject, but I think you needed to hear this," said Hermione, injecting as much firmness into her voice as she could. "Regardless, my feelings for any of my friends are my private concern, and are not up for discussion.

"Ron," she repeated, kindly, "I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have no romantic feelings for you. We are so different—we would make a really poor match. Please get over this so we can stay friends."

But Ron was not about to let it go without a final word. "What do you mean we are a poor match?" he demanded.

"Think about it, Ron," said an exasperated Hermione. "We argue and bicker all the time, we have little in common, and we don't like to do the same things."

"But everyone says the arguing makes us sound like an old married couple."

Hermione shook her head. "_They_ don't know what they are talking about. Real successful marriages are built on love and mutual respect, not on arguing. Do you see your parents arguing all the time like we do?"

"Mum and Dad argue," was Ron's defensive reply.

"Of course they do! All couples have times when they don't agree. But their arguing doesn't _define_ their relationship. Our relationship is not the close, affectionate one that couples should share, and if we argue this badly now, it would just get worse after we start dating. We would eventually split up, and that might even ruin our friendship."

At his look of incomprehension, Hermione threw her hands up in the air. "Really, Ron, can you imagine us married to one another? What would you do if you came home one day and I wanted to discuss the latest Arithmantic formula I was working on? And you know how little I think of Quidditch. Do you really want a wife who could care less about your favorite sport?"

A contemplative look appeared on Ron's face—for the first time, he appeared to be thinking about Hermione's words, rather than only about what he wanted. It was a start, Hermione decided.

"Anyway, thank you for asking, Ron, but I don't think it's a good idea. I hope we can stay friends."

With that, Hermione bid her friend good night and headed toward the stairs and the dormitories. She hated hurting him, but knew it was for the best.

She stepped onto the stairs and made her way up to the fifth year girls' dormitories, and was surprised to see Fleur sitting on the landing, watching her approach, an expression of sympathy etched on her face.

"He asked?" she queried quietly.

Hermione nodded, feeling tears begin to run down her face.

"Ah, mon amie," Fleur said, while drawing Hermione into a hug. "It is hard, but you have done the right thing. He is a good friend, no?"

"Usually," said Hermione while dabbing at her eyes. "He can be a little flaky at times, but at the end of the day you always know he'll be there."

"Then if he is a true friend, he will accept your decision and allow your friendship to remain intact. If he is not…"

Fleur's final thought remained unvoiced, but Hermione knew what she was about to say in any case. It did not make it any easier to hear, but Hermione knew the older witch was correct.

"Thank you, Fleur, but I think I'd like to go to bed now."

"Sleep well," Fleur said, kissing her softly on both cheeks before she departed to her own dormitory.

As Hermione entered her own room, she reflected that the day had generally been a good one. And regardless of the way it had ended, she had faith that Ron would come to his senses and get over his disappointment. It might take some time, but he would eventually get there.

* * *

_Updated 06/04/2013  
_


	16. Chapter 15 – Sweet Freedom

**Chapter 15 – Sweet Freedom**

"Hey, Hermione," Harry said as he plopped down beside her on their favorite sofa in the common room. It was still fairly early and the room was still mostly deserted; Fleur and their other friends had yet to make an appearance.

"Hi Harry," Hermione said with a smile, before she turned back to her book.

Harry smiled at her, noting to himself that seeing Hermione without a book in her hands was the same as a unicorn without a horn.

He studied her surreptitiously, wondering if he should say something to her. Contrary to popular belief, Harry was not truly unobservant—he merely did not always interpret the evidence before him in a correct manner. This defect was especially exacerbated in the case of anything of a family or interpersonal nature, mostly due to his upbringing with the Dursleys. The Dursleys were not an overly demonstrative family; other than their sickening—and rather contrived, Harry felt—displays of affection for Dudley, Harry had rarely been able to discern anything in their actions which even displayed the barest of affection for each other, never mind anyone else. As such, growing up in such an environment and doing his best to avoid their notice, and consequently any unpleasantness, Harry was not precisely equipped to be an expert on relationships and the common signs most people unconsciously showed which betrayed their true emotions.

The past few weeks, though, Ron's display had been so blatant that Harry could not imagine that a blind man would have been unable to see through it. Harry would have noticed even if Ron had not approached him to ask his feelings about Hermione. And given the words which had been exchanged the evening before, and the way that Fleur had practically dragged him away from his two closest friends, it appeared that Ron had finally worked up the courage to ask Hermione out.

In truth, Harry was of two minds about the development. They were his closest friends, and he wanted them to be happy. However, with all the fighting they did, he was not sure that they would work as a couple, and did not wish to become caught between them as had so often happened in the past. Of paramount importance, however, was the fact that Harry could not stand to see Hermione hurt…

"Something on your mind, Harry?"

Broken out of his reverie, Harry noted Hermione's knowing smile; obviously he had not been as subtle as he had thought. Hermione was too observant for her own good.

"I was just wondering if I should be congratulating you this morning."

Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. "For what, Harry?"

"You know…" he trailed off, making vague hand gestures. "You and Ron?"

At that Hermione burst out laughing, causing Harry some confusion in turn. "What?"

"Oh, Harry, I think you may have mistaken a few things."

By now Harry was completely perplexed. Had he truly misunderstood the situation that badly? "Ron _didn't_ ask you out?"

"He did, but I told him I don't see him like that," was Hermione's response. "I mean, can you imagine us as a couple? I'd be hexing him before the end of the honeymoon!"

Grinning, Harry wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Personally, I would have guessed before the end of the reception, but I'll bow to your superior knowledge. And I'll have you know that I may be a little more observant than you think. Ron's actions the past few weeks haven't exactly been subtle."

"No they haven't," Hermione agreed. "But if you're so observant, I would have thought you would have seen how little encouragement I gave him."

Thinking about it for a moment, Harry understood what Hermione was telling him. "I may not have noticed as you say, but I was trying not to step on Ron's toes, in my own defense. I also wasn't convinced you would be good together, but I thought that you might actually give him a chance."

"I can't," was Hermione's prim response. "You know how he can be. If I had agreed he would almost have considered me to be his property. If I so much as talked with another boy he would get jealous, and when it came time to break up with him—which _would_ happen, sooner rather than later—it would have been almost impossible to get him to let go. It's better this way."

Harry held his hands out in surrender. "I understand, Hermione. Obviously you've given this a lot of thought. You _do_ know that he'll be put out, at least for the time being."

A sigh met his declaration. "I know that Harry, but it's best to get this out of the way now so we can continue to be friends."

She was quietly contemplative for several moments and Harry, sensing that she had more to say and was trying to interpret her own feelings, allowed her to think. He had never been in such a situation before—it could not be an easy one.

"I didn't want to hurt him," she finally confided in a soft voice. "He _is_ my friend, regardless of how he has acted at times. I tried to let him down easily and explain to him how poorly suited we were; I'm sure I had him thinking at the end, but I'm well aware that he will need to work it all through in his own mind before he will begin to accept it."

"You did the right thing," said Harry.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. "Is this coming from Harry Potter, the new student of the human heart?"

"No," he responded, not being drawn into her playful words. "It's just Harry Potter, who has an appreciation for his friend and understands that she knows what she wants."

At his statement a shadow passed across Hermione's face, and she blushed and ducked her head in apparent embarrassment. Harry was dumbfounded—he had only said the truth, had he not? She had rejected Ron's advances because she was certain they would not work; was she second-guessing her decision?

It was better for him to ignore it, he decided. If she wished to confide in him the reason for her sudden reaction, he had no doubt she would. Until then, he would give her enough space to work it out for herself.

* * *

True to Harry's prediction, Ron was distant that day, and for several more to come. He was not precisely petulant; he seemed, rather, to be unusually pensive and thoughtful, and though he peered at Hermione at times and appeared to be decidedly unhappy, Harry had the distinct impression that he was much more reflective than resentful. Harry was simply glad that he was not required to referee again between them, as he had thought would have been the result of such an event.

Fleur, however, appeared to be a constant comfort for Hermione, and given his betrothed's actions the previous night, he suspected that Fleur was not only well aware of what had occurred between Ron and Hermione, but that she had actively been giving counsel to Hermione. Harry hoped that Ron never realized that as Harry suspected that Fleur's advice had _not_ been in Ron's favor. That would not likely endear her to the redhead, regardless of how starry-eyed he still sometimes became due to the effects of her allure.

They sat companionably, the earlier solemn subject of conversation now forgotten in favor of lighter topics, until Fleur had joined them in the common room. When they made their way down to the Great Hall, they found a rather unwelcome surprise waiting for them outside their destination—something unexpected which caused them to stop and take notice.

Attached to the wall at the side of the entrance to the Great Hall were several large wooden cases, locked with large, old-fashioned padlocks. The cases each had a glass door set into their casings, showing yellowed parchments inside. The trio looked at one another and approached the boxes, looking inside the one closest to the door. It read in big, block script:

Proclamation  
Educational Decree #1  
For their own safety, all students enrolled at Hogwarts shall not be allowed to cast dangerous hexes and curses. Any student found in contravention of this decree shall be expelled.

"What is an educational decree?" asked Fleur after some moments.

"I don't know," was Hermione's response. "I've never seen or heard of anything like this."

A quick investigation showed that the other cases held similar Educational Decrees, though none were as serious as the first. In fact, most of the others were somewhat silly, ranging from the allowed amount of paper and quills to be carried in one's bag, to the required quantity of socks to be owned by each student, to the prohibition of any "unapproved sweets," though just exactly what constituted unapproved was not stated.

The trio exchanged another glance before they entered the Great Hall and sat about halfway down the length of the table. They ate their breakfast, discussing what they had seen in a quiet manner. In time, all the members of the group had joined them at their table; none of them had missed the proclamations on their way in.

It was the work of but a moment to come to the consensus agreement that the decrees must be the work of Umbridge, and likely constituted the beginnings of her attempt to enforce the ministry's authority over the school.

As Hermione said, "She has really not done much of anything yet, other than refuse to teach us anything, and somehow I doubt that that is what Fudge had in mind when he sent her here."

Sage nods met her declaration but Harry frowned. "But what is she up to? A few stupid declarations will hardly allow her to discredit Dumbledore."

It was of course a question which no one could answer. For Umbridge to truly take control of the school—if that was her objective—then she would need to do away with Dumbledore in some manner, and no one here could see how she could possibly accomplish such a feat. Harry's trial had backfired seriously on the Minister, and Dumbledore's popularity—not to mention Harry's—had not suffered the serious hit that Fudge no doubt intended. She would have to prove him somehow unsuited for the position, or directly in violation of school charter or Ministry law, a task which appeared difficult to pull off, given Dumbledore's years of service and his record which, by any standard, was exemplary. It was not like she could just challenge him to a duel—no one with their head on straight could possibly consider a frumpy, dumpy little woman with an obsessive fondness for pink to be the equal of the famed defeater of Grindelwald.

They went to their classes after breakfast with no further inclination as to what Umbridge could be trying to accomplish, but possessed of a determination to watch her very carefully.

As the day wore on, Harry found that his mind could not stay focused on such mundane thoughts, as another more important event was looming on the horizon. The next day was to be Sirius's trial, and for the remainder of the day, Harry became more and more distracted. Not so distracted, however, that he did not notice his friends' reactions. Fleur and Hermione were, if anything, even more affectionate and understanding than they would normally be, while most of his other friends—excluding Ron, of course, who was largely keeping to himself—just murmured their support and allowed him his thoughts. Harry was grateful for their forbearance and understanding.

His distraction became even worse the following morning. As the trial was not scheduled to begin until two hours after noon, they still had to attend their morning classes. Unfortunately, that morning was potions and Harry, not wishing to bring Snape down on him for any reason, forced himself to at least pay a modicum of attention. Luckily, there was no brewing that day—Mondays were generally reserved for brewing, while Thursday was Snape's theory and preparation day—so Harry did not have to try to create a working brew, which he knew would have failed spectacularly, given the circumstances. And Snape, perhaps understanding Harry's anxiety—or perhaps still remembering his recent set down—largely left Harry to himself.

One event which surprised most of the students present occurred as the class was ending. Apparently the difference in Harry's normal routine was noticed from an unwelcome quarter—one who had no problem heckling Harry over it.

"Hey Scarface," the annoying tones of Draco Malfoy's voice rang out over the room while the students were packing up. "What's the matter? Your doxy won't put out for you?"

Harry spun around, the need to regulate his emotions instantly forgotten. He was ready to slam Malfoy's teeth down his throat when another voice interrupted him.

"That will be enough, Mr. Malfoy."

The entire class stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at the potions master. Was Snape actually defending Harry Potter?

No less astonished was the cause of the disturbance himself. The boy's eyes were wide open and his mouth appeared about ready to hit the floor. "Professor—"

Snape's eyebrow rose, neatly cutting whatever the Malfoy scion was about to say. "Was I unclear? You will not use unacceptable language while you are in my classroom."

Several emotions seemed to pass over Malfoy's face all at once, not the least of which included shock, embarrassment and rage. Finally he turned his attention away from the professor who had just set him down for perhaps the first time, and threw his books into his pack far more forcefully than was required.

"Crabbe! Goyle! Let's get out of here!" he snapped as he stalked from the room, forcing the two goons to hurry to catch him.

Harry turned toward Professor Snape, his face carefully neutral, and nodded to the man when he saw the other returning his gaze. Snape's only response was a tight nod of his own, before he turned and strode into his office, cloak billowing behind him.

"I never though I'd see the day," Ron blurted.

Agreeing with him wholeheartedly, Harry accompanied his friends from the room and toward the Great Hall for lunch, while thinking about Snape's words to Malfoy. Obviously, the bat was still on what passed for his best behavior; otherwise he would simply have sat back and watched the confrontation with glee. It did not escape Harry's attention, however, that Snape had only reprimanded Malfoy for his language, and not for the sentiments he expressed. Clearly the changes in the man only went so far.

An hour later, the three friends said good-bye to everyone else and made their way toward Dumbledore's office, where they would Floo to the Ministry. At first, Dumbledore had been disinclined to allow Hermione's attendance. Fleur was allowed because her father was involved and she was Harry's betrothed, but Hermione was no relation to Harry or to Sirius. However, the Headmaster was persuaded to relent when Harry correctly pointed out that she had been an integral part of Sirius's rescue at the end of third year, and thus, was connected to him in an important way.

They arrived in the office, returning Dumbledore's affable greeting, and moment and a quick Floo trip later, they were all making their way through the Ministry building toward the courtrooms on the tenth level.

It was different, Harry reflected, to see courtroom number ten from the vantage point of the gallery. The last time he had been in that room, he had been front and center and had not had much time to survey the surroundings. However, one thing he could detect was a much different atmosphere than he remembered from two months earlier. For one thing, the air of implacability which Fudge had injected into Harry's trial had been replaced by curiosity. Sirius Black had been a rather large figure in magical England for some time, after all. He was the rumored betrayer of the Potters, and by extension the Boy-Who-Lived, who had then escaped not only from Azkaban, but from Hogwarts when he was due to be kissed, and then had his innocence summarily declared at Harry's trial. The interest level in this trial was incredibly high.

They had only been seated for a moment when Jean-Sebastian entered the room. Spying them, he stepped forward and engulfed his daughter in a hug, and then slapped Harry's back and nodded at Hermione.

"You all are looking… eager today," he said with a grin.

Harry could not help the bashful feeling which swept over him, causing Jean-Sebastian to laugh.

"Do not worry, Harry. Sirius will walk from this courtroom today a free man. I've already seen him questioned under Veritaserum, as you recall. I _know_ he's innocent, even if I hadn't already _known_."

Harry rolled his eyes at his new protector, but Jean-Sebastian simply smirked and left them to join Dumbledore on the floor of the courtroom.

"He's right, Harry," Hermione said softly from his side. "There's nothing to worry about."

From his other side, Fleur reached out and grasped his hand. "Veritaserum cannot be beaten, Harry."

Gratefully, Harry nodded his appreciation for their support. But that did not help him from feeling nervous. Of course not.

* * *

In a small anteroom off the main courtroom, Sirius Black waited, and though he was not aware of the fact, he was every bit as nervous as his godson. Sirius _knew_ he was innocent—he had clung to that truth with an almost fanatical fervency since he had come to his senses at the beginning of those horrible years in Azkaban. The thought of his innocence, along with the protection his Animagus form afforded him, had kept him sane all those years. Of course, Moony and Prongs would have claimed otherwise when it came to the subject of his sanity…

Smiling, Sirius thought of his friends, and how they had planned to storm the world and make it a better place. Their unique backgrounds—James with his status as the heir of an old and respected house, Sirius as the rebellious scion of a historically dark house, and Remus who had been ostracized his entire life for a condition which was not his fault—gave them—or so they felt—the necessary insight into the evils of their society. Things must change or their world was in danger of becoming an anachronism and collapsing in on itself.

Even though many years had passed since James's death and the acute ache of his passing had dulled with the passage of time, Sirius could still feel an empty hole where James's presence had once been, and he knew Moony felt the same. In some respects, Harry had begun to fill that hole, though Sirius knew he would never fully be able to do so. Harry was different from James, and would therefore occupy a different location in Sirius's heart than James had.

But perhaps all their dreams were not dead. Harry was a bright and exceptional person, and perhaps with his help, not to mention the assistance of his fame and influence—which was not inconsiderable—they could still realize their dreams. Harry, Sirius was certain, had not yet begun to think of what would happen after Voldemort was defeated; all of his thoughts and energy were bent toward that one goal, not to mention the need to survive the coming difficulties. Sirius, based on the thoughts and plans he had had with his friends, wanted to change their society, and was certain that once he shared his thoughts, Harry would agree. This did not even mention the enthusiasm the little Muggleborn girl he always hung out with would bring. She would, no doubt, see even more clearly that Harry that the wizarding world needed to change if they were to survive and do away with the conditions which contributed to the rise of several previous dark lords.

One thing Sirius knew beyond all others, however, was that James and Lily were still looking down on their son. And he knew their greatest wish was that regardless of his mistakes—specifically that of chasing after Pettigrew when he should have concerned himself with Harry—that Sirius finally take his role of Harry's defender, with Moony occupying a large role in the young man's life as well. And that was what Sirius was determined to do. After he was declared a free man, of course…

Turning his attention to the matter at hand, Sirius thought of the upcoming trial. Trials in the magical world were not the same as the descriptions of those in the Muggle world he had heard from Lily. They were both more efficient and more effective than those the Muggles held, due to their ability to use magic to determine the truth. This was a trial in front of the entire Wizengamot, and though Sirius would have an advocate—Jean-Sebastian had agreed to take the role as they had decided Dumbledore would be of more use running the trial as Chief Warlock—it would not be the advocate's responsibility to prove his client's innocence. If the case was important or sensational enough—which his was in spades, on both accounts—the release of Veritaserum would be authorized and the person on trial would be compelled magically to either convict or acquit himself.

Unfortunately, what was not admissible was Sirius's conviction that Peter was the actual betrayer of Lily and James. A person could only speak what they believed to be the truth, which was why Veritaserum could not be used in testimony against anyone else.

In other words, Sirius was not Peter, and as he was not Peter, he could not know Peter's thoughts, feelings or motivations, and therefore only Peter could convict himself under the influence of Veritaserum.

Now, the fact that Sirius had been present when Lily cast the Fidelius and saw her make Pettigrew the secret keeper would be damning, as would the subsequent events that led to the Potters' deaths. However, since Sirius had immediately left James and Lily and had not returned until after their deaths, he could not say for certain that the secret keeper had not been changed _once again_. After all, they had used one piece of misdirection—who was to say James and Lily had not done it once again?

His testimony was, however, enough evidence that a warrant would be issued for the arrest of the traitorous rat. Some day, he would be made to pay for his crimes against James and Lily. In Sirius's mind, this was Marauder justice—betrayal would be met with the harshest penalty possible.

The door opened and into the room stepped an Auror—one whom he would have known well, if he had been free instead of in Azkaban.

"Sirius, it's time," Nymphadora Tonks said, her hair flickering to a solemn black from the platinum blond she had originally sported.

"Hello, Dora," he responded.

She stared at him hard, no doubt wondering if this new nickname he had come up with for her was intended to tease.

"What, would you prefer that I call you Nymphy?" Sirius asked with a chuckle

"Certainly not!" Tonks snapped, sending Sirius into even greater peals of laughter.

"Then you'll have to put up with it. It's certainly a lot better than you ridiculously insisting that everyone call you by your last name."

The newly christened Dora's expression became even darker. But she said nothing, only motioning him to the door. Sirius stood and walked towards the door, stopping when he had reached his cousin.

"Thanks, Dora," he said. "I'm looking forward to getting to know you better."

She cocked her head to one side. "My mother always had good things to say about you, Sirius. She never believed that you were guilty."

Sirius smiled. "I always said Andy was the best of her sisters. Thank you."

Turning, Sirius walked out through the hallway and into the courtroom, holding his head high, while Dora and another Auror flanked him on either side. Feeling the eyes of everyone in the chamber bearing down on him, Sirius, calling up a hint of the old Marauder spirit, directed a saucy wave at the Minister, before smiling at Harry and the two girls by his godson's side. The smile was returned somewhat nervously by the young man, but with real hope shining in his eyes. Sirius vowed right there to be worthy of his godson's hope.

The Minister was clearly not amused. He sat there, leaning back in his seat, gazing petulantly at the display Sirius was making. The Minister truly had no political skin in the game when it came to Sirius's imprisonment—he had not been the Minister when Sirius had been imprisoned, and thus could not be held responsible, unless one counted the negligence which had kept _anyone_ in any position of power from reviewing his case, and Fudge was not the only one guilty of that oversight. It appeared that the Minister's displeasure stemmed more from his connection to Harry Potter. Anything which benefitted Harry was anathema in his eyes.

Approaching the center of the room where Jean-Sebastian waited, Sirius instantly noticed the chair with its restraints, which he remembered from his own time as an Auror, was missing, and a straight-backed wooden chair had replaced it. He raised his eyebrow at Jean-Sebastian in question.

"I would not allow Harry to sit in that demeaning chair; do you think I would allow you to do so?" he queried good-naturedly.

"I'm surprised Fudge allowed it."

Jean-Sebastian snorted with some disdain. "In this instance he did not have much of a choice or any real reason to argue. Your absence has left you less than informed, but this trial is almost being considered a formality. Madam Bones felt there was no need for restraints, as you were turning yourself in for trial."

"I always knew I liked her," said Sirius, with a smile for the Bones matron. She returned it, before returning to her conversation with Dumbledore.

As Sirius took his seat in the chair, the courtroom quieted and the attention moved to the Chief Warlock who was now standing to begin the proceedings.

"Ladies, Gentlemen of the Wizengamot, I believe we are ready to begin. I call this trial for Sirius Black in session." He peered down at Sirius with a slight smile on his face. "Thank you for giving yourself up to the judgment of this court."

"Of course, Chief Warlock," replied Sirius. "I am very interested in having my name cleared, and resuming my place in this society."

"Very well. We shall begin." Dumbledore motioned toward Madam Bones. "Director, if you will."

Madam Bones rose to her feet and took her place before the lectern. "Sirius Orion Black, you are called today before Wizengamot of Great Britain to answer to the charges brought against you. Those charges include the betrayal of James Potter, Lily Potter and Harry Potter to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and thereby causing the deaths of Lily and James. You have also been charged with the killing of Peter Pettigrew and the murder of thirteen Muggles during your confrontation with the aforementioned Peter Pettigrew. How do you plead?"

"Innocent of all charges, Madam Director," said Sirius.

"Mr. Black," she responded, peering down at him severely through her monocle, "you understand that the release of Veritaserum has been authorized, and that _you will_ be magically compelled to prove your innocence?"

"I do." Sirius's eyes became a little misty for a moment as he remembered his fallen friend. "James Potter was my closest friend growing up, and by my seventh year, Lily was like a sister. I would have turned a killing curse on myself before I hurt either of them."

Madam Bones's scrutiny continued for several seconds before she motioned the nearby Aurors. "Very well then. Auror Dawlish, if you will administer the Veritaserum please."

It was a quirk of Veritaserum—or perhaps it was so designed—but it was known that the counter-agent could not be taken _before_ the truth agent. If taken in the wrong order, Veritaserum and the counter-agent would form a highly toxic poison, from which a person could only be saved if the attention of a highly skilled healer or a bezoar was available immediately. That was why a defendant was not tested first for the counter-agent—the effects were well known.

Tilting his head back, Sirius allowed the Auror to place the requisite three drops on his tongue. He felt the haze of the Veritaserum take effect immediately—he was still in command of his faculties and was completely aware, but any falsehood he might have harbored disappeared from his mind. He could not even think up a lie, which was why the truth agent was so powerful—it did not affect the speech of the recipient, rather it affected their very mind, will, and being, and no known potion or force of will was able to defeat it.

He focused on Madam Bones as she peered at him. After a moment, she appeared to be satisfied that the potion had taken affect.

"Please state your name."

"Sirius Orion Black."

"Very well, Mr. Black. Did you, on the night of October 31, 1981, betray James, Lily and Harry Potter to You-Know-Who with the intent of causing their deaths?"

"No." Sirius wanted to say more, but the power of the truth serum was forcing him to reply only to the question asked.

"Were you secret keeper to their location?"

"No."

"Why were you thought to be their secret keeper?"

"James and I thought that I was the obvious choice," Sirius responded, happy to finally be able to tell his story. "We let it be known that I was to be the secret keeper, but we switched at the last moment to Peter Pettigrew."

"Why did you do this?"

"Misdirection. You-Know-Who would concentrate on finding me, while Peter would be able to go into hiding. No one would ever suspect James of entrusting his safety to Peter, as he was not known to be the most competent or courageous of wizards."

"Were you actually present during the casting of the charm?"

"I was."

"And what of the charges of killing Peter Pettigrew? Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Then how was he able to make it seem that you had? What happened during your confrontation?"

"When I cornered Peter, he was holding his wand behind his back. He yelled at me, accusing me of betraying James and Lily, and cast a blasting curse which tore through a pipe and caused an explosion which killed the Muggles. Then he cut off his own finger to make it appear like the rest of his body had been consumed in the blast and disapparated."

"Why didn't you tell this to the Aurors who apprehended you?"

"I was disoriented by the explosion, and by the time I came to my senses, I was already inside my cell at Azkaban."

Madam Bones regarded him for a long moment before she continued. "And what of your escape from Azkaban? Why did you escape? And if you were able to escape, why did you wait so long?"

"I became desperate when learned that Peter Pettigrew was close to Harry. It was that desperation which drove me to attempt it."

"How did learn of this?" Madam Bones interrupted.

"During the Minister's annual tour of Azkaban, he left me with a copy of his Daily Prophet. I saw a picture of Peter Pettigrew with the Weasleys, and knowing he would be at Hogwarts this year, I knew I had to get close to Harry to protect him."

"I seem to remember that edition," said Madam Bones with a frown. "The picture of the Weasley family was on the front cover, yet it would have been obvious that a man believed to be dead for over a decade could not have openly appeared in the picture. Yet you claim you saw him?"

"Yes."

"Please explain."

"Peter Pettigrew is a rat animagus. I saw him in the picture perched on Ronald Weasley's shoulder."

The Director's nodded thoughtfully. "Are you saying that Peter Pettigrew lived as a rat with the Weasley family since his apparent demise?"

"I have no knowledge of how and when he came to be living with the Weasleys. However, I am positive it was him."

"How can you be certain?" Madam Bones pressed.

"I have seen the rat in his animagus form many times, Madam Bones," Sirius responded, a hint of dryness entering his voice regardless of the truth agent. "Besides that, he was also missing a toe on his left forepaw, which is the hand which Peter cut his finger off. I also saw him at Hogwarts in his human form."

"So you went to Hogwarts to protect Harry?"

"Yes, but also to capture or kill the rat if I could."

"Let's return to your escape. How did you manage it?"

"I changed into my animagus form and squeezed through the bars of my cell."

Her eyebrows rose. "You are an animagus as well?"

"Yes."

"And what is your form?"

"A black grim."

"That's not ironic at all," Madam Bones responded in a dry manner. "A grim with the name Sirius Black—that's something one could hardly have planned had you even attempted to do so. Do you not agree?"

"Yes," Sirius said. "My friends certainly teased me often enough for it."

"What did you do then?"

"I evaded the Dementors—which wasn't difficult, as they practically ignored me as a dog—then I swam ashore."

"Is that how you continued to evade the Dementors who were sent to apprehend you?"

"It is."

Halting her questioning there, Madam Bones peered about the room, before stopping at Dumbledore. "Chief Warlock, I believe that I have no further questions to ask Mr. Black at this time, though I would ask that he meet with me at a later date, as I would like to ask him some further questions, which perhaps should not be made public. In addition, I would recommend that we begin the search for the whereabouts of Peter Pettigrew."

Dumbledore rose and signaled to Dawlish, who immediately administered the counter agent. Immediately, Sirius felt the compulsion to tell the truth wane.

"I trust the information I provided was what you were looking for?" he asked cheekily.

A murmur of laughter swept over the assembled members, and Dumbledore's eyes twinkled madly.

"I believe so, Mr. Black."

Dumbledore's gaze then swept over the courtroom. "Is there anyone who wishes to say anything further before we take a vote?"

Though Dumbledore addressed the entire room, he directed his gaze at Fudge who, although he appeared to be less than pleased with the proceedings, made no comment—clearly there was to be no outburst from the Minister regarding the matter.

"In that case, I move that in light of Mr. Black's testimony under the influence of Veritaserum, that the charges against him be dropped. I believe the evidence is convincing enough to eschew a vote in favor of a proclamation by general acclamation. Does anyone object?"

Sirius grinned at the Chief Warlock. A proclamation by general acclamation was considered to be superior to a unanimous vote, as the evidence was deemed so airtight that a vote was not required. No one would ever question his exoneration, and the Ministry reparations would likely be substantially higher based on this development.

When no one spoke, Dumbledore banged his gavel against the desk. "So proclaimed. Sirius Black, we find you not guilty of all charges against you."

A whoop of joy sounded from Harry's direction, and Dumbledore allowed himself an indulgent smile at the young man. "I will not keep you much longer, as I understand there will be quite a celebration occurring tonight. However, there is one other matter to discuss.

"Through the course of today's testimony, we have learned that you have broken the law in at least one instance. For failing to register yourself as an animagus, the penalty is normally a stay in Azkaban. In light of the fact that you have already spent a considerable amount of time there, I believe we can rule that your sentence has already been served. However, the court will give you sixty days to present yourself at the Ministry and register yourself, or other action may be taken against you. Do you understand?"

"I do."

"As for any reparations in the matter of your unjust imprisonment, perhaps we should confront that matter at another time? Do you agree?"

Sirius smirked and looked at the Minister, who appeared as though he had swallowed something rather unpleasant. "I believe that is acceptable to me, Chief Warlock. Please inform me of the appropriate time, and I will meet with you and the Minister.

"And Madam Bones," he continued, turning his attention to the Director of Law Enforcement, "I would be more than happy to meet with you at any time convenient. Please owl me and we can set up a time."

Madam Bones nodded, while Dumbledore peered about the room. "Does anyone in the august body have anything else to add at this time?"

Again, after a moment of silence, Dumbledore banged his gavel and dismissed the assembled.

Standing up from his chair, a beaming Sirius caught his godson in a hug, as Harry ran to him the moment the gavel sounded.

"Hey there, Pup! Didn't you have any faith in me?"

"In you, yes," Harry replied. He cast a significant look at Fudge. "Not in him."

"Even he is bound by the laws. He may try to circumvent them, but in the end the procedure in this case was clear, and there was nothing he could do to derail it without looking bad himself."

"I'm just happy it's over," said Harry.

"So am I, Pup. So am I."

* * *

They reconvened at the Ambassador's manor shortly after Sirius was pronounced free, and were treated to a celebratory dinner cooked up by the Delacour house elves. The atmosphere was jubilant, and the company was able to relax now that the specter of the manhunt for Sirius had been removed.

Among the subjects discussed that night were the events of the early school year, which was of particular interest to both Sirius and the Delacours. And though they were both displeased at the antics of Madam Umbridge—and to a lesser extent Professor Snape—they were also pleased with the way the students had handled the matters thus far and the support the Headmaster had given them. Sirius in particular was interested in the report of Harry's confrontation with Snape, and the manner in which Snape had reprimanded Draco that very morning. He warned them to watch out for the greasy git—he did not think the man's behavior would continue, nor did he think that the man had changed to any degree. The fact that all appeared to be well thus far did not stop the adults from cautioning the teens once again and reminding them that they were available at any time, should either professor become a serious problem.

The decision was also made that Sirius would return to France to continue his treatment and rehabilitation for the years of malnutrition and mental distress he had suffered during his time in Azkaban. Harry in particular was unhappy that Sirius would not be nearby, but as Jean-Sebastian pointed out, Harry would have to return to school and Sirius would not be able to be nearby anyway. Sirius promised that he would see them at Christmas, and expressed his hope that he would be able to return to England by the time the New Year rolled around. He also told Harry he hoped to be able to take up his guardianship as soon as possible, and begin to fulfill the responsibility which James and Lily had entrusted to him. Needless to say, that suggestion was accepted enthusiastically by Harry.

The evening was a balm to them all, and laughter and high spirits rang out throughout the manor. However, as all good things must end, their time that evening came to a close when the Headmaster collected them for the return to Hogwarts. After saying their good byes, they returned to the school via the Floo. It had been a good day—one of the best, in Harry's opinion.

* * *

At Hogwarts, Ron Weasley was not in as festive a mood as his friends were at the ambassador's manor.

If Ron were to be honest with himself, what he was feeling at that particular moment was petulance. Hermione, the girl he had been dreaming about for most of the previous year, and had finally gathered the courage to ask out, had rejected him out of hand. Sure his ego was bruised, but even more, he felt heartsick. Why did she not like him back?

Hermione had denied it, but Ron was not so blind that he did not see more of her feelings than she thought. And what Ron was certain he saw, was that Hermione still harbored feelings for Harry. He was sure of it, and the fact of the matter was that he was more than a little jealous of his best friend. Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, defeater of Voldemort and all around famous bloke had the affections of the one girl Ron Weasley wanted to like _him_. It was all so unfair, especially since Harry could not do anything about it, being betrothed to Fleur Delacour.

A small part of Ron's mind niggled at him, telling him that that was not precisely true. Harry was able to have more than one wife, after all, and though Hermione was a Muggleborn, and therefore needed to tread carefully in the matter, he would not be surprised if her love for Harry was enough to help her overcome her socially-induced distaste for a multiple marriage enough to agree to become a second wife.

How did Harry get all the luck anyway? A beautiful bird like Fleur already sewn up and a wonderful girl like Hermione infatuated with him.

But even as Ron's jealousy spiked he felt ashamed of himself. Harry was not the kind of guy to lord what he had over everyone else—in fact, he was quite the opposite. He never wanted his fame; it had been thrust upon him. And if Hermione was truly in love with Harry, then Harry was a guy who truly deserved a girl like her, much as it pained Ron to admit it.

The more he thought about it, the more Ron was convinced that there was nothing he could do about the situation. To make a big fuss over Hermione's rejection not only meant risking her friendship, but risking Harry's as well. He was certain Harry would not tolerate anyone hurting Hermione, best friend or no. And the last thing Ron wanted was a repeat of last year…

And who knew? Maybe Hermione was only infatuated with Harry. Maybe she would grow out of it. She was still only sixteen, after all; how many people actually found a true love at such a tender age?

The thought rang hollow for Ron the instant it entered his mind. Hermione was very mature and well beyond her years in many was, not the least of which was her intelligence and her emotional maturity. Though her feelings still may turn out to be nothing more than teenage infatuation, Ron felt it was something more—it had always been something more. They had been a trio since that Halloween night during first year, but in truth, Ron had always known subconsciously that he orbited around the two of them, rather than the three orbiting around each other. It had always been Harry and Hermione, and it likely would have _only_ been Harry and Hermione, had the betrothal contract with Fleur not interfered.

No, the sooner he accepted the reality of the situation, the better, as it would allow him to get things back to normal. Having come to the decision, Ron was rather proud of his own emotional maturity—it was certainly better than he had behaved the previous year.

Besides, Hermione's last words to him about their suitability for each other still echoed in his head. Was she correct? It was something he would have to think about in greater detail when the time came, but for now her rejection was still a little too raw. There would be time enough for that later.

Thoughts of the events of the previous year once more put Ron into a pensive mood. Hermione was right—though Harry had immediately forgiven him, they had never actually discussed what had happened, and he could now see it had affected their relationship. And though he knew it would be uncomfortable, he knew he had to speak with Harry about it and apologize for his behavior. Nothing else would do.

Having come to a determination, Ron felt lighter than he had in months. He would wait until the appropriate time, but he _would_ have a conversation with Harry. Harry deserved it as his closest friend.

Taking note once again of his surroundings, Ron saw that the common room appeared pretty empty. The hour was getting late and though he had thought to wait up for Harry's return, he now felt that maybe he had better head to bed. He would once again rejoin the group tomorrow.

He was about to push himself up from the sofa, when Fred and George sat down on either side of him, their faces lit up with their usual laughing grins. Ron peered suspiciously back and forth at the two jokesters—usually when they acted in this manner, they had something up their sleeves which would inevitably turn out to be embarrassing, and sometimes painful.

"Good evening, Ron," said one.

"How are you this fine evening?" said the other.

Ron glared at his brothers. "What do you want?"

"Hey, is that any way to speak to your favorite brothers?"

"It's almost as though he doesn't trust us, Forge."

"Hmm… Where do you think he came by that attitude?"

"Please, I was just about to go to bed," Ron complained, knowing that if he allowed it, they could keep up their banter almost indefinitely.

"Far be it for us to deny you your beauty sleep, Ronnie. But you've appeared to be a little down and distant the past couple of days."

"We thought we'd see if there was anything we could do to help."

"I'm fine," Ron answered gruffly. "Nothing wrong with me that a little sleep won't cure."

Unfortunately, the two pranksters did not take the hint.

"I would have thought you'd be on top of the world, Ron," said Gred, going by the fact that he had already called the other Forge. In truth, it generally did not matter which twin was which, as they generally answered to each other's names, and almost seemed to know what the other was thinking.

"Why?"

"Well, you've been using the book we gave you, right?" replied Forge. "By now you should have the delectable Miss Granger eating out of the palm of your hand."

Ron snorted with derision. "Yeah, well your stupid book didn't work."

Gred's eyes widened at the admission. "You already asked her out?"

"Yeah, and she turned me down flat," Ron grumped, still upset at the turn of events.

The twins shared a glance, and began smirking at one another, instantly putting Ron on his guard. If they had tricked him with that book…

"Hey, what's going on? Why are you two grinning like that?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Nope, nothing at all."

"Yeah, and I'm Merlin. Come on, guys, spill."

Once again the twins glanced at each other in that uncanny manner which suggested they were sharing a conversation without words. By now Ron was beginning to become a little cross, but the twins appeared to notice it and attempted to placate him.

"We really have to hand it to you, Ron," said Gred with a smirk. "We didn't really think you had it in you."

"We thought you'd dillydally about for months before finally getting the courage to ask her out. You really surprised us."

"Didn't see the point in waiting around," Ron said with a shrug.

"No, I suppose not. In true Gryffindor fashion you charged ahead, regardless of the fact that you had virtually no chance whatsoever."

"You almost remind us of your favorite team, the Cannons. They do the same thing—charging out to certain defeat game after game. True Gryffindors, the whole lot of them, though perhaps not the brightest specimens of our house."

"I suspect that they may have a little too much Hufflepuff in them too."

"Not to mention a complete lack of anything resembling skill. But that's probably a prerequisite for admission to the Cannon fraternity."

The first twin nodded sagely at his counterpart's words, but for once Ron ignored the insult against his favorite team.

"Wh… What to you mean no chance?" he managed to stammer.

Forge peered at him like he had the intelligence of a particularly stupid flobberworm. "You didn't really think you had a chance with Hermione, did you?"

Ron sputtered with indignation. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you are so different from each other," Gred interjected. "You fight, argue and complain about each other—there's no way a relationship between you two would last. Hermione would be hexing you before you ever got around to saying your vows."

With narrowed eyes, Ron glared at his brothers. "If you thought I didn't have a chance, why did you give me that stupid book? Did you want me to embarrass myself?"

"I'm positively wounded that you would think that of us, Ronnie," declared Gred with a hand placed theatrically over his heart.

"What have we ever done to cause you to think such a thing?" said Forge.

When Ron glared at them even further, they sighed almost as one.

"Well, I guess we have kind of made you suspect our intentions in the past."

"But we assure you we did not do it to embarrass you this time."

"Then why did you do it?"

"To give you the courage to get it out of your system," said Gred. "Otherwise you may have moped around with your puppy dog eyes, and your longing looks for months and months before finally mustering the courage to be shot down."

"This way, we've helped you gain some confidence, and helped you get this painful episode out of the way much sooner than you would have otherwise."

"Not to mention the fact that the book has given you an idea of how to act around girls which you can use the next time."

"Though we would recommend you learn to behave that way naturally, rather than just to impress the girls."

"Seems to me you owe us thanks for our assistance."

Ron did not know whether to be outraged, or to laugh uproariously at their irreverent behavior. They had set him up, giving him the book and giving him hope, all the while expecting him to fail. He wanted to be angry—desperately wanted to let loose on them—but somehow, found that he could not find the will within him to do so. There was never a dull moment when the twins were around and Ron reflected that he should have been suspicious at their apparent largesse. Desperation, it seemed, had made him careless.

"I think the next time I see you, I'll give that book back to you—right between the eyes, if I can manage it."

"In that case, aim for Fred—it was his idea," said Forge.

"Hey, I distinctly remember it being your idea, George!" said Gred.

Ron, however, just shooed them away. "All right then. You two have had your fun. Now off with you!"

"Very well," they said, standing. "We had better go and collect our winnings now."

They turned to walk away, but had only made it a couple of steps before Ron's mouth caught up with his brain. "Winnings?"

"Yes. Some of our housemates had the stupidity to bet us that Hermione would get together with you."

"Knowing you both better, we took that bet, and are about to make a tidy profit."

Flashing identical grins, the twins turned and sauntered away, supposedly to collect their aforementioned winnings.

Ron was once again left in the unenviable position of not knowing whether to laugh or cry. In the end though, he did neither—he was too weary and wished the day to end too much for that.

He rose from the sofa and trudged up the stairs, swearing once again to never accept anything from the twins, be it their assistance, or any of their other double-edged gifts. The results of their assistance were almost guaranteed to be immensely devastating to his pride.

* * *

_Updated 06/06/2013  
_


	17. Chapter 16 – Weasley Troubles

**Chapter 16 – Weasley Troubles**

The days after the trial of Sirius Black were good ones for Harry Potter and his group. Though perhaps he was essentially the same person as he had always been, others were heard to comment on the fact that Harry seemed to have an extra spring in his step, not to mention the smile which was always hovering, ready to appear on his face at a moment's notice. Not even the presence and the watchful disdain of the resident Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was able to bring him down from his emotional high.

The next morning's Daily Prophet headline, hailing the trial and subsequent acquittal of the head of the family Black—and last to bear the name—induced as large a grin as any of his friends had ever seen, though perhaps the acclamation was not universal. To most of the rest of the student body, it was supposed, it was a matter of relatively little consequence, though Draco Malfoy's disgust was evident. He had been in line to become the head of the House of Black, had Sirius been convicted and executed, and his displeasure that the heir to the Black Estate was alive and well, _and_ innocent of all charges, turned his mood as bad as Harry's was good.

For the forces of the light, Sirius's exoneration was important, though possible only through a certain set of curious circumstances. When Sirius had run away as a young man, his mother had promptly disowned him from the family, blasting him from the family tapestry in her disgust and rage. However, his father had never made the banishment official, and as head of house, only he had the power to do so. Whether this was because Orion disagreed with his wife in this matter or because he had decided that having a blood traitor as an heir was better than one of the cadet lines inheriting, Sirius never knew. Suffice to say that upon his escape from Azkaban, Sirius was astonished to find that he was still a member of the family, and more importantly, its head. One would perhaps think that his time _in_ Azkaban would have negated his rights as head of house, but as Sirius had never actually been convicted of a crime, and had never been banished by his father, the magic which governed such issues had always recognized him as the official head of house once his father and brother had passed away, regardless of the perceptions of society at large.

A more important consideration was the fact that his exoneration kept the Black fortune—which, despite centuries of decline, was still sizable—out of the hands of Voldemort's forces, and specifically, from Draco Malfoy. Privately, Sirius informed Harry that he had already completed the necessary steps to make Harry his heir, so Draco would never have inherited in any case. However, as his will could have been challenged on a number of fronts, being free and recognized as the head of his house was the best outcome for all. Of course, Harry's position as heir was pending upon Sirius never having a child—a son would inherit if Sirius was ever fortunate enough to have one.

Sirius's exoneration also allowed him to assume his family's hereditary seat in the Wizengamot, and to hold the proxy vote for house Potter. In the past, though the Potter vote had always been cast by those aligned with the light, the Black vote had been held by those who had held similar beliefs to those espoused by Orion Black, and though one might scoff at the effect of having one vote defect to an opposing stance, the power and influence of a new and secure Black head was not to be underestimated, especially when that vote had been traditionally dark.

And finally, and perhaps most importantly, as the new head of Black, Sirius was able to run the politics of his house, and to specifically determine the status of any present members of his house. Bellatrix LeStrange and Narcissa Malfoy, in particular, would find themselves under close scrutiny, as Sirius had instructed the goblins to investigate the marriage contracts under which the two women had been married. If there had been any breach of contract, Sirius was well within his rights to declare the contracts null and void, and demand any bride prices attached to the contracts returned. This would not affect their marriages, as such—regardless of whether the contracts had actually been breached, the marriages _had_ taken place—but at the very least it could deprive Voldemort's forces of some of their liquid assets. Since the family's history was dark, Sirius was uncertain as to whether the goblins would actually find anything, but he felt it was a reasonable move to make in light of the potential benefits

The reactions of the rest of the school to Sirius's exoneration were in general as expected. Most of the students were indifferent as, though the older years remembered the stories of Sirius Black and his actions during Harry's third year, he was still largely an unknown quantity. The Headmaster was openly relieved at the outcome, and the teachers who had known Sirius were happy that he had finally received the justice he deserved, especially Minerva McGonagall, who had always had a soft spot in her heart for Sirius and his fellow Marauders. As for Severus Snape—whose rivalry with James Potter and Sirius Black had been legendary—he gave the report one of his trademark sneers, and then proceeded to ignore its very existence.

The most curious, perhaps, was Dolores Umbridge. The woman had said absolutely nothing during Sirius's trial, though Harry would have expected her to be vocal in condemning him. Her silence seemed to indicate that Fudge had deemed the situation a lost cause and had ordered her to keep her peace, for Harry doubted privately that the woman was intelligent enough to come to such a determination on her own. But once the report was circulated amongst the Hogwarts population, Dolores was even more obvious in her attention toward Harry Potter. On several occasions, Harry could almost have sworn that the professor was attempting to bore holes through him with her eyes, though why the freedom of Sirius Black should make her even more disposed to hate him than before, he had no idea whatsoever.

Whatever the woman's plans had been when she entered the school, she had not progressed very far on them. Thus far, other than the contrived attempt to assign him detention on the day of the trial, things had been fairly calm in her class, and it was now widely acknowledged to be almost as boring as History. And other than the one Educational Decree which was a concern, the rest of them—including two more which had appeared since the first ones had been posted—were almost nonsensical, not to mention completely useless to what they suspected was her cause. If she was trying to infiltrate the school and force changes due to the supposed uncontrolled nature of the students, she was sadly failing. Thus far, she had had relatively little about which to complain, especially if she was attempting to prove the Hogwarts was out of control, and the Headmaster out of touch.

Life at the school continued apace. Classes were attended, homework assigned and completed—or ignored, as the case may be—and Harry found himself becoming even closer to his two female friends than he had been before, if that was even possible. His closeness to Hermione was a given—they had been by each other's side since they had arrived at Hogwarts, after all. However, now that Fleur had become part of the dynamic, and Hermione and Fleur had drawn so close, Ron's distance from the entire group for several days caused a gentle shift in their friendships. It now seemed that Harry, Fleur, and Hermione had almost become the new _de facto_ golden trio as, other than for classes, they could almost always be seen in one another's company. And though Ron was able to see this as well as any other, he was quick to realize that to a certain extent it was his own fault due to his actions the previous year. His distance from Hermione in particular, which, despite his determination to accept the situation, persisted for several days, further cemented the new trio's status.

The one thing in which there appeared to be little change was the status of Harry's relationship with Fleur, or at least it would have to a casual observer. In truth, they were becoming closer and more comfortable with each other all the time. Up to that point it had not translated into a more physical sort of affection, but they were both determined that that particular facet of their relationship did not need to be rushed. It was not like they did not have time for that in the future.

There were two things specifically of note during those few days. The first was that Malfoy was making much less of a pain of himself, particularly in Potions class, but overall as well. He had not taken Snape's set down well, and Dean had gleefully reported seeing the ponce storming down to the owlery soon after the incident in Potions with a letter in his hand, presumably to whine to the senior ponce about his mistreatment in Snape's class. Whether there was ever any response was not known, but the fact that Malfoy was much less obtrusive was undeniable.

The other matter of some note was the furthering of the concept of a defense club to help offset the uselessness of Umbridge's class. Fleur and Hermione had discussed Luna's suggestion at length, and both of them agreed that it was exactly what they needed to help pass their year-end tests. Furthermore, Fleur agreed with Hermione's idea of having Harry lead the group. Not only was he the best at defense, Fleur had pointed out, but running a club such as this was also a good way to further improve Harry's confidence in himself. The problem was convincing Harry to agree with their way of thinking.

Harry was stubborn—Hermione knew this from years of friendship, and Fleur had seen it several times, even in the short time of their betrothal. And though Harry had no problem helping others—and actually possessed a healthy dose of what Hermione coined his "saving people thing"—in this instance he did not feel that he was up to the task of running a club on top of his other activities. Why this was so, the two young women could not precisely say. It may have been a consequence of his new determination to excel at his school work, or it may have been simply because he still lacked confidence. Whatever the reason, he was digging in his heels, and no matter how many times they discussed it, he would deflect any discussion of leading it himself, though he would certainly add his own opinions to exactly how it would be structured, what should be taught, or anything else of any merit.

Hermione and Fleur were not about to give up, though—Harry _was_ the perfect person to lead it, whether he knew it or not, and they were determined to help him see that fact.

* * *

Monday morning found the trio in the Great Hall with their other friends, all concentrating on their breakfast. As it was a Monday, none of them were precisely energetic—Mondays had a tendency to have that effect on a person. The conversation was sporadic and desultory, and the entire hall was rather quiet. This quiet and contemplative mood was interrupted when dozens of owls swooped into the Great Hall to deliver the morning mail.

Fleur was watching the spectacle in a rather bored fashion—she had exchanged letters with her parents late the previous week and was not expecting anything—when she noticed a slow and somewhat clumsy owl gliding unsteadily down through the throngs of the other post owls. The clumsy creature was aiming directly—or as close as it could—for their spot along the table.

It hit the table several seats down and spun out of control, knocking over several glasses of pumpkin juice and upsetting a plate of bacon, before it stopped a short distance down the table from where Fleur sat with Harry and Hermione. The creature then picked itself up with whatever dignity it still possessed and shuffled toward them, stopping directly in front of Hermione. From further down the table Fleur heard a gasp.

"Isn't that Errol?" she heard Ginny Weasley ask.

By now the attention of the entire in the area was fixed upon the owl, or perhaps more correctly, on the angry red envelope the owl was even now offering to Hermione.

Hermione gingerly reached out and accepted the red envelope, after which the owl—showing that although it was clumsy and old, it was decidedly _not_ stupid—awkwardly flapped its wings and began hightailing it from the hall, inasmuch as it was physically capable.

Fleur gazed at her friend with some trepidation—it was clear that Hermione had most certainly not expected a letter, let alone a howler, and especially not one which was carried by an owl the Weasley family all seemed to recognize. A quick glance at Harry showed his surprise, though Fleur did notice an undercurrent of suspicion and a hint of anger beginning to color his features.

With a shaky hand, Hermione ran her thumb through the flap of the envelope, which was beginning to smolder, and very tentatively, she pulled letter out of the envelope, immediately snatching her hand away when confetti exploded from the howler, and it began to scream.

"HERMIONE GRANGER! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING, YOUNG LADY? I SIMPLY COULD NOT BELIEVE IT WHEN I HEARD THAT A YOUNG GIRL LIKE _YOU_ WOULD REJECT _MY SON!_ WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE ANYWAY? ARE YOU THAT MUCH OF A GOLD-DIGGER THAT YOU WOULD REJECT RONNIE AND SET YOUR SIGHTS ON A YOUNG MAN WHO IS ALREADY TAKEN? I AM UTTERLY ASHAMED OF YOU, YOUNG LADY, AFTER ALL RONNIE HAS DONE FOR YOU, BEING YOUR FRIEND ALL THESE YEARS, AND STANDING BEHIND YOU AND SUPPORTING YOU, THIS IS THE WAY YOU TREAT HIM? IF THIS IS THE WAY YOU ARE GOING TO ACT, YOU ARE NO LONGER WELCOME IN _MY HOME_ UNTIL YOU COME TO YOUR SENSES! YOU ARE A DISGRACE!

With that final accusation, the howler burst into flame and was consumed, leaving a stunned Hermione with tears already leaking from the corners of her eyes. Without a word to anyone, she stood and fled the hall to the already growing chorus of jeers from the Slytherin table.

Fleur glanced at Harry and, seeing him begin to rise, she put her hand on his arm to restrain him.

"I'll go find her," she told him.

Harry appeared as though he wanted to protest, but after a moment he gave her a tight nod. As Fleur rose to go, she cast a glance at the assembled Weasleys and was unsurprised to see them all sporting the same looks of astonished befuddlement, though she though Ron also had a hint of embarrassment and even guilt in his visage.

Shaking her head, Fleur grabbed both her and Hermione's packs, and made for the door. She exited to the entrance hall to find that Harry had followed her. In his hands was the map his father and friends had made, which he was studying intently.

"She's in an unused classroom on the first floor," he bit out through clenched teeth.

Looking over his shoulder, Fleur noted the location on the map, while inwardly thinking about Harry's protectiveness towards Hermione. How her betrothed could not be fully aware of his feelings for the young witch was beyond Fleur's comprehension. However, that was a subject for later thought—for now, her friend needed her.

"I'll comfort her," said Fleur.

Harry smiled at her and reached out to squeeze her hand, and kiss her cheek. "Thanks Fleur. I'll join you as soon as I figure out what's going on."

Nodding, Fleur slung the two backpacks over her shoulder and set out, noting Harry's determined gait as he returned to the Great Hall. Clearly, certain students were about to be called to account for the events of the morning.

* * *

Ron watched as Harry and Fleur followed Hermione from the hallway, his mind spinning at what had just happened. When he had written his mother, it had been in order to release some of his frustration and ease the pressure he felt on his heart. It was widely known exactly how Molly Weasley doted on her children, and for Ron her mothering normally caused him no end of annoyance, as she could be positively stifling at times. However, she also had a way of listening to her children and supporting them regardless of the situation, which at times—like this, he had thought—was immensely comforting. Attacking his friend, however, was not exactly the type of comfort Ron had in mind.

"Ron!" Ginny hissed. "What did you tell Mum?"

"I sure didn't tell her to send Hermione a howler!" Ron whispered back in his own defense."

"Our siblings appear to be up to something, George."

Ron turned and saw the twins regarding both himself and Ginny with looks of suspicion etched upon their faces.

"They do, Fred, and if I'm not mistaken, it has something to do with the lovely Miss Granger, who has just run from the room in tears."

For once, the twins appeared to be completely serious—no hint of their usual playfulness and sense of fun was evident in the suspicious glares they were directing at their two youngest siblings. And if that was not unnerving, the other members of their group—Neville and Luna (who almost always sat at the Gryffindor table recently), not to mention the Gryffindor Quidditch team members—all had frowns upon their faces as they regarded the two youngest Weasleys.

"Well, Ronnie? Gin? What is going on here?"

Ron glanced around with some apprehension, noticing the sea of eyes fixed on their little conference. "Umm… Fred, George, can we have this discussion elsewhere?"

The twins exchanged a look and a glance around the hall where, it appeared, an undue amount of attention was fixed upon their little conference. "I suppose that makes sense," replied George at length.

"No sense in airing our family's dirty laundry in a room full of gossiping teenagers," Fred agreed.

The four stood and made their way from the table, Ron assiduously avoiding Malfoy's smirk—and perversely wishing he could knock it off the poncy git's face. He followed his brothers and sister from the Great Hall where they were confronted by an extremely angry-looking Harry.

"Give us five minutes, then come and find us," said George, preempting whatever Harry was about to say.

"We want to talk to our brother and sister first," added Fred.  
Harry eyed them with no lessening of his anger, before nodding and entering the Great Hall. Meanwhile Ron and his sister followed the twins to an unoccupied anteroom, where the two pranksters immediately turned on their siblings.

"Well you two? What's going on here?"

"Don't look at me," cried Ginny defensively. "Ron's the letter king, not me!"

George's responding glare seemed to indicate he thought Ginny had all the intelligence of a mountain troll. "Are you not our sister?" he asked rhetorically.

"And more to the point," Fred continued, "aren't you the one who has mooned about, making puppy dog eyes at Harry ever since he became friends with Ron? Come on, Ginny, if you have anything to do with this, tell us so we can save our friendship with Harry."

"I had nothing to do with it," Ginny insisted. "Yes, I like Harry, but I've not said one thing to Mum about Harry or Hermione since we came to school."

"And have you given up on Harry yet?" prompted George.

"No!" was her decisive reply. "Why should I? You both know as well as I that he is able to have more than one wife. I'm not going to give up when there's still hope."

"Ginny, _you_ _don't_ _have_ _a chance!_" said Fred bluntly. "He's engaged to Fleur, and unless I miss my guess, if anyone has the inside track on becoming the second Mrs. Potter, that person most certainly appears to be Hermione."

"But Harry said he wasn't interested in Hermione!" Ron exclaimed.

"Ron, you really are a thick git," said Fred with some disgust. "He may _think_ he has no intentions toward her, but even you, the perpetually blind, has seen that the world revolves around her in his eyes. Isn't that why you actually developed a backbone and went after her yourself?"

"Harry's getting more comfortable with Fleur all the time," George added. "But it's always been Hermione."

"Be quiet for a moment—we'll deal with you after we deal with our younger sister."

Through all of this, Ginny gaped at her brothers. "_Hermione_ is interested in _Harry?_ She told me she wasn't!"

Fred shook his head with some disgust. "It appears like Ron is not the only one who can't see two feet in front of his face. It's like the blind leading the blind!"

"We've got our youngest sister who watches Harry like a hawk and practically undresses him with her eyes," George said, ticking one finger, "and she can't even see how into each other Harry and Hermione are."

"Then we've got Harry and Hermione themselves who can't see how into each other they are," continued Fred, ticking another finger.

"The surprising part is that our resident thicko here," George jerked a thumb at Ron, "has taken his head out of his arse and noticed enough to try to make a move on Hermione before Harry stakes his claim. And_ even then_ he believes Harrikins when he says he's not into Hermione."

Ron bristled at the insult but remained silent.

"And George is right, Ginny," said Fred. "I would have expected you to see how important Hermione is to Harry a long time ago, given how much attention you pay to him."

"Look, Ginny, we know you've always had a crush on Harry, but you need to let it go. Even if he does take another wife, there is no guarantee he will choose you."

"I know," said Ginny. "I've already had this conversation with Hermione. She told me to just be Harry's friend, and that's what I'm trying to do."

"Well, that's certainly an improvement on your 'squeak and run' tactics from before," was Fred's dry response.

Ginny's gaze darkened, but George spoke before she could go off on his twin. "You aren't going to be all angry at Hermione now because you know this, are you?"

"Of course not!" Ginny snapped. Her stance and stony expression screamed her defiance. "But I won't give up hope. I won't complain to Mum, or bother Harry, but I'm going to try to get to know him better. Hopefully, he'll come to love me as much as I love him."

There was a moment's silence after Ginny's statement, and though Ron did not say anything, he knew that whatever feelings Ginny had for Harry, they must be deeper than the infatuation he felt for Hermione. A small niggling part of him still thought Ginny was not seeing or even attracted to the real Harry, but he was not about to get in her way. She had to make her own decisions; he was having difficulty enough dealing with his own.

"Ginny, I'd advise you to give it up, but it's your choice."

"As long as you don't go antagonizing our friends, that is."

Ginny nodded, and though there were tears in her eyes, her expression held a determined and almost implacable obstinacy. It was clear that regardless of what the brothers said to her, she was not ready to give up.

Therefore, Ron soon found himself directly in the crosshairs of his older brothers once again. "Well, Ron? Do you want to tell us something?"

Ron shuffled his feet awkwardly, not really wanting to talk about it. The twins already had far too much blackmail knowledge about his feelings for Hermione, and he was reluctant to discuss it further. He tried mumbling a response, hoping that it would mollify them, but the twins were having nothing of it.

"I'm sorry, Ron, I can't hear you. Perhaps you should speak up."

"All right, all right!" Ron exclaimed. "I wrote to Mum and told her that I asked Hermione out and that she had said no."

"And…" Fred prompted.

"And nothing," said Ron. "That's all I told her. I was hoping she'd help me feel better—you guys know how supportive she can be. I certainly can't expect that from you gits now, can I?"

"So you didn't complain to Mum and ask her to stick up for you against big bad Hermione?"

Ron glared at Fred. "No. I figured she'd write me back, not attack Hermione.

"Look, guys," Ron continued, "I _was_ hurt when Hermione wouldn't go out with me—I won't deny that. But I respect her decision and I'd never want Mum to embarrass her in front of the whole school. Or embarrass _me_, for that matter."

At that moment the door opened and Harry walked in, looking at them all with a grimness seldom seen. Ron had to do a double take—he had never seen Harry so focused, and rarely had he seen his best friend looking so upset. It appeared the confidence he had obtained from the influence of the Delacours was being unleashed, and a new Harry, complete with the leadership skills and the implacable will to achieve his goals—not to mention his will to protect his friends—was emerging. Ron found himself feeling a little intimidated.

* * *

Stepping into the room, Harry surveyed his friends and wondered just exactly what was going on. The howler he had just heard insulting his closest friend reminded him of the crap Hermione had had to put up with the previous year. She would not have to do the same this year—not if Harry had anything to say about it.

What he was not certain of, was Ron's role in this fiasco. He knew that Ron was upset by Hermione's rejection—his behavior during that past few days had made that plain for anyone who knew him to see. Ron was… difficult sometimes. He could be petulant and jealous without a doubt, and his past had shown him to have a certain vindictive streak as well. Harry thought he would not behave in such a spiteful manner simply because Hermione had refused to go out with him, but he was not completely certain. If Ron _had_ caused Hermione's embarrassment, it would be some time before Harry was able to forgive him.

"Well, what's going on guys?" Harry asked without preamble.

The Weasley children all shuffled from side to side, and none of them would meet his eyes. Harry folded his arms and leaned back against the door frame, waiting for one of them to speak up.

"Maybe you should tell him, Ron," one of the twins said.

Ron scowled, but he visibly gathered himself, and turned to face Harry.

"I asked Hermione out, but she told me no."

Becoming a little impatient, Harry gave Ron the hurry up motion with his hand. "And?"

"Well, apparently Mum didn't take it very well."

"Ron, what exactly did you tell your mother?" Harry asked.

"Just that Hermione told me she wouldn't go out with me and that I wasn't happy with it, I swear. I'm _not_ happy about it; you know that, Harry. But I didn't expect Mum to do this. I'd never want Mum to go after Hermione like that. Hermione is my friend."

It was more than likely nothing more than the truth, thought Harry. Ron was not a very good liar—Harry figured he could usually spot when Ron was trying to cover something up. The thing Harry was not certain of was why Mrs. Weasley would react this way. He was well aware of the fact that she wanted him for a son-in-law, but was she really that set on having Hermione as a daughter as well?

No, it was likely not that, exactly. It was more likely that she was being protective of her son, though a certain amount of resentment for the way Harry had suddenly been tied to Fleur had likely bled over into the situation.

"So, what do we do now?" queried Harry.

His friends all looked at one another as though they had not considered what they should do to fix the problem.

"I guess we need to speak with Mum," said one of the twins.

"Not that I'm looking forward to that," grumbled the other.

"Come on now, Fred, where's your sense of adventure?"

"My sense of adventure is completely subservient to my sense of preservation," was Fred's response. "Especially where Mum is concerned."

Harry smirked—leave it to the twins to take a tense situation and release a little of the stress with just a few words.

"Don't worry, Harry," Ron assured him. "We'll talk to Mum and get her all sorted out."

"Thanks, guys," Harry responded. But while he appreciated their willingness to tackle the problem, he wanted to make certain his friends understood his opinion on the matter.

"I just want you all to know that I consider you family—you've all been very good to me, and I really do appreciate it. And I include your mother in that statement—she's always welcomed me to the Burrow, and she and your father have always been there for me when I needed to feel like I had a family.

"_But_," Harry emphasized, "I _will not_ continue to consider her a part of my family if she continues to attack my friends. She can be angry with Hermione for not going out with you, Ron—that is her choice. But she canno react in such a public manner. I will not allow her to continue to embarrass my friend in front of the entire school. After she believed the articles about Hermione last year, I set her straight—I would have thought she would know Hermione better by now."

"We know, Harry," George responded.

Harry looked at them curiously, and he smiled a little apologetically at Ginny. "Sorry for bringing this up, Ginny—I know it's hard for you. But is part of this related to her disappointment over my betrothal to Fleur?"

The siblings all looked at one another yet again while Ginny blushed, giving Harry all the answer he felt he needed. It was confirmed by Fred, however.  
"We're not sure, but it may be."

Shaking his head, Harry fixed them all with a stern glare. "Well, your Mum can't do anything about that. And besides, it's not Hermione's fault, so she I'd appreciate it if your Mum didn't attack her."

He glanced at Ginny and smiled, which she returned somewhat hesitantly. "I'm sorry if this is all difficult for you Ginny. I don't mean to hurt your feelings."

Ginny gamely smiled at him and murmured that she was fine, which was heartening—maybe she was starting to outgrow this infatuation. She _was_ behaving a little more familiarly around him, rather than the almost silent shyness he had always seen from her in the past. He liked the change in her—it was much better having another friend, rather than someone who would not even speak when he entered a room.

"Look guys," Harry stressed, "I can handle your Mum's disappointment over what has happened. But she has to get used to it because she cannot change it. I really don't want to have to break ties with the first mother figure I've ever had."

The message he had just imparted did not seem to have escaped any of his friends—Molly Weasley _had_ been the first woman he had ever met who had any of the criteria he would expect in a mother. Petunia Dursley certainly could not be accused of being motherly—not even to her own son, regardless of her sickening displays. However, Harry now had another woman who he looked up to, and to be completely blunt, Apolline Delacour was far less overbearing and nosy than Molly Weasley. Apolline would eventually become his mother-in-law, and her personality made her much easier to approach than the Weasley matron. Harry still liked and appreciated Molly, but he would not continue to associate with her if she persisted in her attacks.

The redhead siblings readily agreed with his sentiments, and after a few more moments of discussion, Harry exited the room, consulting the map as he left. He had a hurting friend to find and comfort.

* * *

For the rest of the day, Harry, Hermione, and Fleur were a little cold to all the Weasley siblings, though in truth Hermione did not hold a grudge against her friends—they could not control the actions of their mother, after all. That did not change the hurt she felt, nor what her friends felt on her behalf. She was able to be gracious when, one by one, the Weasley children approached her to apologize for their mother's behavior. But even so, she could not help but be aloof from them, regardless of their best efforts—the humiliation she felt from receiving such an accusing howler was still too acute for her to forget it so easily.

The one who held back, though, and watched them from a distance was Ron. She knew Ron would not have maliciously encouraged his mother to attack her—Harry's account of his conversation with the Weasley siblings forced her to agree with that assessment, not that she would have thought him complicit in the event anyway. Still, it was disappointing and hurtful that Ron's mother would have thought she was capable of such gasping behavior, and she was not eager to see the woman again any time soon. And given the distance between her and Ron—the distance Ron had already created due to his own disappointment—Hermione was not exactly surprised when Ron did not approach her during the day like his siblings had. Perhaps Ron was making some progress, but in Hermione's eyes he was still had some growing to do.

The one thing which struck Hermione that day was Harry's attitude and actions. He positively doted on Hermione throughout that entire day. He was gentle and caring, and very solicitous for her feelings, and Hermione found herself enjoying the attention. And she knew that Fleur had not missed it at all—in fact, the French witch had smirked at Harry's behavior any time she thought the two of them were not looking, though Hermione did catch her at it a couple of times. And when Hermione confronted Fleur about it, the Veela simply smiled and asked if she still doubted the depth of Harry's feelings for her _now_.

After classes were finished—and Monday was their heaviest day of classes—a very relieved Hermione dropped her books off in her dorm, happy that she was finally done for the day. She had been the subject of attention from all quarters that day, and though no one had actually said anything to her—even Malfoy had been cowed to a certain extent by Harry's glares, she thought—still it had been a trying day, and one she was happy was over. Now all she had to do was make it through dinner, and she could relax with her friends and work on her homework.

She made her way down to the common room, and was surprised to see Ron pacing the floor not ten feet from the foot of the stairs. She paused for a moment, and then resolutely stepped into the room, causing Ron to stop his pacing and look at her with a certain measure of nervousness.

"Umm… Hermione, can I talk to you for a moment?" Ron stammered.

"Of course, Ronald. What can I do for you?"

She noticed Ron's slight flinch at the moniker "Ronald"—he knew as well as anyone that she only called him that when he was in trouble—before he glanced about the room and motioned her to a nearby corner which was unoccupied. Once they had moved there, he sighed and ran his hand through his hair in agitation, before he turned to face her with determination.

"Hermione, I wanted to apologize for my mother."

"Thank you, Ron, but I'm certain it wasn't your fault," Hermione replied. "Right?"

Though perhaps she should have had more faith in her friend, a part of Hermione still could not help but wonder if Ron _had_ had something to do with his mother's actions. His own actions the previous year toward Harry, not to mention what he had done over the broom incident in third year, made her hesitant.

"I did write my mother a letter, but I was disappointed, you know? I do like you and I did want to go out with you, and I told my mother that. I _do_ have feelings for you, Hermione, but I respect your feelings as well, and would never want to see you hurt and embarrassed the way you were this morning."

"Thank you, Ron," Hermione said, patting his hand. "Thanks for saying this—I know it wasn't easy. However, I don't hold you responsible for your mother's actions."

A relieved smile stole over Ron's face, and he pulled Hermione into an enthusiastic, but clumsy hug. _This_ was more like the Ron she knew—uncomfortable speaking of his feelings, and awkward in his actions, and more endearing than the Ron attempting to be a suave ladies' man. She was grateful to see his reappearance.

"I also want you to know that I respect your feelings too, Ron," Hermione replied when Ron had finally pulled back. "I don't have the kind of feelings for you that you want, but I'd never hurt you over them either.

"I just really would like you to be a little more consistent in your friendships to both Harry _and_ me. I really want to return to the way we used to be when we were younger, before all these feelings and hormones started getting in the way."

"I'm working on it, okay?" said Ron with a cheeky grin.

Hermione could not help but laugh at his antics. He waggled his eyebrows at her and bowed in an exaggerated manner.

"Shall we go to dinner now, milady?" he asked.

Giggling, Hermione grasped his proffered arm and joined their friends who, unnoticed, had gathered behind them, all ready to head out of the portrait hole and go for dinner.

As they walked toward the hall, Hermione could not help but reflect yet again on the day, and on her close friend. Ron had always been somewhat immature, but if there was a silver lining to his mother's regrettable actions, it seemed as though it was giving him a push to finally grow up a little. It was definitely a start.

* * *

Albus had been in the Great Hall that morning when Miss Granger opened her howler. Even so, he was somewhat surprised to receive a visit from the Weasley twins later that afternoon, asking for permission for a rather odd request—they wanted to Floo the Burrow and talk to their mother about the howler.

He had been considering doing something about the situation himself. The pressures on Harry, particularly with Umbridge in the castle spreading her vitriol, were such that Albus did not wish for his favorite student to have even more stress than was already the case. And certainly not from one he considered family.

Molly Weasley was a good woman, and a staunch supporter of the light, having brought her children up with the same set of beliefs and strong desire to do the right thing as she and Arthur already possessed. For that, he could only be grateful—the Weasley family was amongst the strongest opponents of Voldemort and his forces, and their assistance and support were invaluable.

But this obsession of Molly's to run her children's lives and her insistence that Ginny would be a perfect match for Harry was not helpful in the slightest. And Albus knew that her frustration over the situation regarding the now-enacted marriage contract was behind this, far more than any disappointment she felt over the young Muggleborn rejecting the advances of her youngest son.

Albus had to chuckle—he was not so old that he did not remember his own attempts as a youth. He had been just as awkward and lacking in confidence as any young person, but if he had to guess, he thought young Ronald would have put him to shame, as socially awkward as the lad was known to be at times.

He was quick to accept their request—it was best to resolve the matter in as timely a fashion as possible, after all. And it was far better that the reprimand come from her own family than from him. Albus did not wish to embarrass her, after all.

As Albus was to be briefly absent from the school that Monday evening, he requested the siblings' presence in his office on Tuesday. Once they had all gathered together, he grasped a handful of Floo powder, and called the Burrow. He received the requisite permission and motioned for the children to precede him, stepping through once they had all left. He arrived in the living room of the Burrow, where Molly and Arthur awaited them noting that the Weasley parents' faces were etched with concern—no doubt they suspected that their children had done something to warrant a visit from the Headmaster. How ironic that exactly the opposite was the case.

"Albus, are the children all right?" Molly fretted the moment he had entered the room.

"They are fine, Molly, but they do have something important to discuss with you," responded Albus. "I will stay only to give support, but I will allow the children to tell you the problem."

By this time, the children had greeted their parents with hugs all around, and then made their way to the various pieces of furniture which was set about the room. Young Ronald was the one to break the ice, and Albus was unsurprised that his words were a trifle blunt.

"Mum, why did you attack Hermione that way?"

Molly appeared taken aback at her son's forthrightness, but it was only a moment before she collected herself.

"Ron, I'll ask you not to speak to me in that manner," she admonished. "I did not attack Miss Granger—I merely tried to point out to her that she was making a mistake."

"Making a mistake?" asked George.

"That's rich, Mum," said Fred. "I thought it was a person's choice who they wanted to date."

When Molly was about to respond, Arthur, with a look of confusion, interjected, "What are you talking about? What happened?"

"I asked Hermione to be my girlfriend, Dad," said Ron with a hint of embarrassment.

Arthur smiled widely. "Good for you, son. She's a wonderful girl."

Ron's expression was stoic. "She refused me, Dad. She told me she doesn't have anything but brotherly feelings for me."

Clearly Arthur did not know what to say. "It's okay—I was a little upset, but I respect her feelings."

"That's good, son," Arthur said with a hint of pride. "We cannot force our feelings on others, no matter how much we want them to be returned. It sounds like you handled it properly."

Arthur glanced at Molly, who was now blushing faintly, clearly suspecting what her children wished to discuss. "Then what is the problem, Ron?"

"Mum sent Hermione a howler," Ginny stated. "She called Hermione a gold-digger and insinuated that she was a tramp trying to go after Harry when he's already taken. She embarrassed Hermione in front of the whole school."

"_And_ embarrassed me as well," Ron added. "Hermione's more important than me here, but what Mum said made me look like a little whiner, going to his mother for protection. I expect I'll have the Slytherins on me as much in the next little while as Hermione."

"Oh, Molly," Arthur said with some resignation and a shake of his head.

"It wasn't like that," Molly protested. "The girl doesn't know what is best for her, and I was just trying to help her come to a better decision."

"On the contrary, Molly," Albus spoke up, feeling the need for a little back up for the children's claims, "I was there when Miss Granger received your howler. It was rude, overbearing and completely uncalled for—you should not have sent her that. You are not her mother, after all."

The woman had probably not been set down in this manner since she was a schoolgirl at Hogwarts, Albus reflected. Certainly he had never spoken to her in such a manner since he had gently reprimanded her for some mild misbehavior during her sixth year. Clearly she was not used to it. She said nothing, however, though her nervous glances at everyone in the room made her appear as though she was feeling slightly besieged.

"Mum, I want to know why you are trying to drive away our friends," said Ginny with a cold implacability.

Molly was surprised at Ginny's accusation, but her eyes immediately narrowed. "Ginny, I will not have you speak to me in this manner."

"It's true, Mum," said Ron, supporting his sister. "You know what Harry told us? He told us that he considers us a family, but he won't if you keep attacking Hermione."

Molly threw her hands up in the air with some exasperation. "I _was not _attacking the girl, and I resent the implication that I was. Ron sent me a letter which clearly told me he was heartbroken, and I was trying to support him by pointing out that Hermione should think about it a little more before she dismissed him out of hand."

"Mum, no one is accusing you of being intentionally hateful," said Fred. "But the letter you sent to Hermione was not a gentle remonstrance."

"Hermione was crying as she left the hall, Mum," added George. "She was embarrassed about it, and I don't think I need to tell you how the Slytherins reacted."

"Well… perhaps I may have been a little… forceful in voicing my opinions," said Molly, now having the grace to appear embarrassed.

"I wouldn't exactly call it a _little_ forceful, Mum," said Ron. "But I'd really like to know why you're so set on a match between me and Hermione. I mean, I know you want Ginny and Harry…" Ron trailed off, looking a trifle embarrassed himself.

Albus was interested himself. The fact that Molly wanted Harry and Ginny together was about the worst kept secret in existence, but Albus had never given much thought to the other two members of the trio, and whether Molly had any ambitions in _that_ quarter.

Though she did not answer at once, Molly threw a few surreptitious looks at her youngest son, leading Albus to believe that her reasons revolved around him. When she finally did break her silence, his suspicions were confirmed.

"I… I don't want you to feel badly, Ron, but sometimes you have a tendency to be a little… unmotivated. Hermione is a driven girl, and I think she would be perfect to help you achieve your potential."

"Oh Mum," Ron said with some exasperation. "I know what I'm like sometimes, and I'm trying to get better. To be honest, Harry's new attitude has been a great help, and I think I'm making progress.

"But even _I_ know that that is nothing to base a long-term relationship on. I like Hermione, and I'd love for her to like me back, but if we're really that different, then it's really for the best this way."

"Good job, Ronnie," said George with a slap on his brother's back. "There's some hope for you yet."

Ron backed that statement up when he very maturely crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at his brother, causing laughter around the room. Even Molly appeared to feel somewhat better as the tension eased out of the room. She was not a bad woman, Albus told himself—she was just somewhat of a meddling one, and she sometimes had a tendency to believe that she knew best. Painful as it was, it was a trait she shared with Albus, if he was completely honest with himself.

Once the laughter died down Arthur spoke up, seemingly deciding it was time for him to take control of the situation. "You have to let it go, Molly. Hermione is a bright and mature girl—she can decide for herself what she wants, and there is nothing you can do to change her mind."

"Very well," said Molly. "I will leave the children alone. I'm not happy with the situation, but it is what it is."

"It is that indeed," said Albus kindly. "I thank you, Molly. I know this is not easy, but it _is_ necessary. We all need to be focused on what is important here, and Harry does not need to be distracted by such matters."

Molly nodded her head in agreement, and then announced that her children needed to get back to school. Once again hugs were exchanged all around, along with the Weasley matriarch imparting some final few pieces of advice for her children, while telling them that she was proud of them. That was where Molly was at her best, Albus reflected—supporting, teaching, and loving her family was where her true qualities lay. Albus had no doubt that Arthur would continue to work with her and help her to find the proper outlet for her frustrations.

As for the children, Albus was very impressed with the maturity they had shown on this evening. The Weasleys had always been staunch supporters of the light, as he had already reflected upon. The young generation was shaping up to be just as important and steadfast as their parents.

* * *

_Updated 06/07/2013  
_


	18. Chapter 17 – Compromise

**Chapter 17 – Compromise**

Unfortunately, no one could maintain an emotional high for long, and in the case of one Harry Potter, the likelihood of doing so was practically nonexistent. As he had reflected before, his life was not a simple one, nor was it a calm, placid cruise along idle currents. No, his life was more like a trip down a set of raging rapids, or sailing into the teeth of a monster hurricane. Regardless of whether one's life was that of Harry Potter, or of someone more… normal, reality must set in, and the day-to-day life once more dominate one's focus.

For Harry, it was not one thing which brought him down from his previous high, it was a number of things all put together, and the fall was not a slow decline as might be expected, rather it was a quick and sudden drop.

It started, of course, with the howler from Molly Weasley attacking his best friend. The fact that the Weasley matron had _not_ offered even the barest of apologies did not impress Harry in the slightest, nor did it appease Hermione. The account of her discussion with her children was welcome to the extent that Harry knew she would not repeat her actions in the matter of the howler. However, Harry also knew that she would expect them to simply forget the matter and ignore it, without the proper process of contrition and apology. Doubtless, the next time she saw them she would behave as though everything was as it always was and attempt to smother them in her affection and warm, possessive hugs, as was her wont. _She_ might consider the matter closed, but to Harry and Hermione, as long as the apology was unspoken Molly Weasley would be forgiven, but the episode would not be forgotten.

For several days after the event, Harry found himself responding to the Weasley siblings with a little more coldness than he had ever before. In fact, both Hermione and Fleur were the same way. It was not fair, Harry knew, as the children were really not to blame for the actions of their mother, but perhaps it was understandable. Either way, the Weasleys accepted it for what it was, and allowed the trio some time to come to terms with the event by allowing them the space they required. It did not take long, and soon the friends were once again as close as they had ever been.

The one thing which the howler did for Harry was to force him to think about the female adult figures in his life and to put them into some perspective. He now understood that his initial reaction to Molly Weasley as a mother figure was a simple product of the fact that he had _never had_ such a person in his life before. Aunt Petunia could certainly never be considered to be motherly, and outside of Mrs. Figg—whom he considered to be more of a batty old grandmother than anything else—he had not really had any contact with any other adult women, other than Professor McGonagall, who also did not fit the mother mould.

He quickly came to the conclusion that Mrs. Weasley, for all her good points, was not what he considered a mother to be either. At least, she was not what he considered _his _mother to be. If he had had an image of his mother throughout his formative years, Harry would have said that he had always hoped that she was loving and kind, willing to support him in anything, and quietly help him improve his faults as a mother should. Harry was well aware that his image of his mother was skewed, and represented a level of perfection which was not attainable by anyone. And all he had heard from others led him to believe that Lily Evans had been a strong woman, with a stubborn mindset, and a tendency toward somewhat of a volatile temper. However, Harry was certain she would have provided him a loving and positive environment in which to grow, had she lived long enough to do so. Of course, such thoughts engendered a renewed sense of loss, but Harry was well used to it by that time.

So, if Molly Weasley was not a mother figure, what role did she fill in his life? The more Harry thought about it, the more he decided that she filled the role of a meddling aunt, one who was forever poking her nose into the lives of her nieces and nephews, while smothering them with an entirely unnecessary—and perhaps somewhat contrived—level of affection. The description fit Mrs. Weasley precisely, Harry realized, though he knew both the woman and her children would likely be offended should he ever characterize her in such a way in front of them.

By contrast, his ideal of a mother was quickly being filled by Apolline Delacour. _She_ was more what he imagined his mother to be—she was firm and unyielding when the situation demanded, but she was also willing to step back and allow her children to live their lives, while providing advice when asked. Harry could not say that he knew her well yet, but he already felt comfortable with her, which was for the best, he reflected, as one day she _would_ be his mother. Or at least she would be his mother-_in-law_.

Regardless of Harry's thoughts about mother Weasley and the havoc her actions had caused to his equilibrium, it was only a few days before his feelings settled and he was able to put it behind him, though he did not forget. Other, more immediate, concerns intruded into his consciousness, which replaced the drama with the Weasleys. Malfoy's avoidance turned out to be a rather temporary respite, as after the howler, he returned with a vengeance, though seemingly with a new target. Though he did not exclude Harry from his comments, he now took every opportunity to taunt Hermione, asking her how her campaign to become Harry's mistress was coming, how she was getting along with Mrs. Weasley, and anything else he could think of which would cast her in a negative light. Hermione counseled Harry to ignore the prat, and though Harry would have liked nothing more than to blast Malfoy where it hurt, he agreed that the ferret was not worth his time or effort. It helped that Malfoy did not dare to approach the same level of crudity for which Snape had reprimanded him—it seemed like those words had had a rather large affect on the Malfoy spawn. Or perhaps it was simply the fear of being called out by his head of house again. It turned out to be a good thing that Harry was ignoring him, as they discovered several times that Umbridge had been watching them as Malfoy had been spouting off, no doubt hoping for an opportunity to catch Harry responding to the prick's taunts and begin her task of proving him to be a trouble-maker, which had thus far been stymied by his control over his temper.

The final thing which had begun to dominate Harry's attention was the aforementioned Defense professor and her class. The woman was a menace, he quickly decided, and she seemed intent upon goading Harry into a response, using whatever method she could. Harry, with his new-found maturity—not to mention the ever-present assistance of his closest friend—managed to resist her ever more blatant attempts. It was taxing on his temper, however, as he desperately wanted to put the woman in her place.

More than a month into classes, it was very apparent that their original estimation of her class was spot on—they had learned almost nothing in that time and Harry doubted things would get better as long as she was at Hogwarts. With OWLs looming large at the end of the year, even Harry, who had always found Defense to be easier than most, began to be worried about how he would manage to pass the tests without any practical experience.

Ironically, however, the biggest drain on his temper was not the toad woman or the ferret, as may have been expected. That distinction began to manifest itself in that ridiculous suggestion Luna had made that evening at dinner—the idea to start up a Defense Club. Sure he wanted to learn his Defense material for OWLs that year, and he would have participated in such a club had it existed, but the thought of _running it himself_ was not something he wanted to consider. Not only did he not consider himself qualified to teach a class to his peers, but with his determination to improve his overall performance, he was certain that taking on a responsibility such as Luna had suggested would affect his other subjects, all of which he was not as comfortable with as he was with Defense. He felt it did not make sense to concentrate on a subject he was good at, to the expense of others which he felt required more effort.

His friends, however, did not see it that way. It became a frequent topic of conversation, not only among the training group, but also among some of their other friends in Gryffindor house. It seemed like hardly an hour went by when someone would once again bring up the possibility of some sort of Defense Club. Then, inevitably, eyes would wander in his direction, comments would be made without any subtlety whatsoever, and Harry would find himself once again becoming annoyed with the topic.

The worst, of course, were his friends, who took every opportunity to point out that no one could match him with respect to Defense, and that they should really begin planning to start up the club. But though all of his friends got into it to a certain extent, the worst perpetrators were Fleur and Hermione. The latter especially, it seemed, was determined to see him lead this so-called club.

It reached a boiling point on the second Monday in October. Admittedly, Harry had been in a bit of a foul mood the whole day. Potions had been Potions, and though Snape had let up on Harry specifically, he was still a strict and exacting disciplinarian. His classes were always stressful and never any fun, in Harry's mind. History and Divination were as they always were, but the worst was obviously Defense. That day, Umbridge had been particularly blatant in her attempts to bait Harry, and leaving the class, he was almost coming to the conclusion that it would be worth it to provoke the toad for the simple reason that he would finally be able to tell her exactly what he thought of her. Not even Hermione's tutoring in Runes—which he curiously found rather enjoyable and relaxing—was able to help Harry unwind that evening. It was, therefore, a stressed and fed up Harry who was sitting with his friends in the Gryffindor common room after dinner, puzzling through a Rune cluster which Hermione had given him to solve.

After the fact, Harry could not even say what it was that set him off. In hindsight, it was often this way—the most innocuous comments could have the most negative impact upon a person, causing them to react in a manner which could not have been predicted. A person's state of mind simply had a way of affecting them to behave abnormally at times. This was such a time.

"Hermione, will you just let it go already?" Harry snapped at Hermione when she once again broached the subject of the club.

It was a tone Harry rarely used—especially with Hermione—and the suddenness of it clearly took her aback.

"Harry, I—"

"No, Hermione!" Harry was practically yelling, and though he could see everyone in the common room stop to watch the spectacle, his frustration had boiled over and he was beyond caring who saw his tirade.

"You have continued to harp and harp on this, and you don't seem to get the picture. I _don't want_ to lead any stupid club and I wish Luna had never come up with this harebrained idea at all. I'm sick of continually hearing about it from everyone—no one seems to respect my feelings in this matter. Now shut it! I don't want to hear about it again!"

Closing his textbook with a resounding crack, Harry stormed from the room, almost running over a firstie who was entering through the porthole with a friend. Harry dodged around her and, ignoring the look of curiosity she directed at him, he stalked away from the common room.

The next half hour saw Harry wandering through the school aimlessly, thinking about the school year thus far, and the events of the past weeks. It had not taken long for his anger to cool and his control to reassert itself, and as a consequence, he soon felt ashamed for his outburst. He had never spoken to Hermione in such a way before—though they had certainly had disagreements and even spats—and he knew that she never expected it from him. She was due an apology, and he knew it would have to be made immediately.

Regardless, he was unwilling to return to the common room so soon after losing his cool—his mind needed a little soothing, and some solitary time spent thinking was just what was required.

It _had_ been difficult at times, he decided, though there had certainly been bright spots. What he would not give for a year—just one!—where he didn't have to deal with all the crazy happenings in his life. And yet regardless of what he wanted, he found himself dealing with stupid and unqualified Defense professors who would like nothing better than to discredit him for her stupid employer, along with greasy, grudge-bearing potions masters (though Snape had certainly been better since they had cleared the air), and the ever-present interference from poncy, ferrety, bigoted gits with little manners and even fewer brains. As he had reflected before, it sometimes just did not pay to be Harry Potter.

Harry had just about decided it was time to return to the common room, when he turned a corner in the hallway and saw Hermione and Fleur walking toward him, both wearing expressions of determination on their faces.

"Come with us, Harry," Fleur instructed, and taking his hand in hers, she began pulling him along the corridor, with Hermione trailing behind. Harry avoided looking at his closest friend, not wanting to see the hurt on her face until he had to.

"That one's empty," Hermione said, pointing to a door on their right.

Glancing back at Hermione—completely forgetting his reluctance to look at her—Harry raised an eyebrow. Hermione merely smiled, holding up the Marauders' Map.

They stepped into the empty classroom, and closed the door. Fleur applied privacy charms to the room, while Hermione grabbed three chairs and positioned them close together. She motioned to a chair and took one of the others.

"Look Hermione," Harry began, "I'm sorry I lost it back there. I shouldn't have yelled at you."

Hermione smiled, and reached forward to pat Harry's knee. "It's all right, Harry. I shouldn't have kept on pushing you either."

"It is not all right," Fleur interrupted with a clipped tone. She seated herself in the third chair, and directed a pointed look at an abashed Harry. "This is exactly what we've spoken of—you have done well so far this year, but you still need to learn to control yourself better."

Harry mumbled that he knew and he was trying, and after a brief, but intense look, Fleur appeared to accept Harry's apology.

"We need to discuss this," she stated after a few moments. "You should not have spoken the way you did, Harry, but we have not handled this any better. We should have sat down from the beginning and talked about this, rather than pestering you about it."

Harry looked up in shock. "Fleur, I already said I don't want to do this."

"Why?" was her blunt query. "Why are you so against it?"

Sputtering, Harry's ire began to return. They simply _would not_ leave this alone!

"Maybe because I'm not qualified," Harry growled. "Or maybe it's because I have enough on my plate with being a Prefect, trying to do my best in all my classes, not to mention Quidditch. I don't understand why you two are so insistent about this."

Sighing, Fleur reached out and grasped his hand once again, her thumb working circles on the back of it. It was clearly an attempt to calm him, and given her hands were soft, and her manner gentle and affectionate, Harry had to admit that it was working perfectly.

"Harry, we need to speak about this rationally. I don't think you've considered everything yet."

"What do you mean?"

"What we mean, is that Defense is not doing us any good, Harry," said Hermione. "And the way things are going so far, we may have to put up with her for the rest of the year."

"So how is that my problem?" Harry demanded. "Why is it my responsibility to make up the slack for her incompetence?"

"It isn't your responsibility, Harry," said Fleur. "But what everyone has been saying _is_ correct—you are the best in Defense in the school. You are modest, which is a good trait, but you cannot deny the facts."

"And think about it, Harry," urged Hermione. "We came to school thinking that we would need some way to put the things that Moody taught us to good use. This is the perfect way to do it, and to train others at the same time."

"You will learn more that way, too," Fleur added. "Teaching others is a great way to learn yourself."

Harry almost felt like he was watching a tennis match, the way the two girls were going at him. But though he felt once again like they were pressuring him, he was not getting angry. He was beginning to become tired of the whole thing. Was that their plan? Browbeat him until he finally gave in only to get them to stop?

Once again Harry was shamed by his thoughts. They would not do that—they were both passionate in their beliefs and unwilling to give ground when they thought they were in the right, but they would never attempt to manipulate him in such a manner.

"Harry, what is it that really bothers you about this?" Fleur asked gently.

"I've already told you," said Harry, combing his hand through his hair. "Hermione's been after me since we came to Hogwarts to take my studies seriously, and I'm trying to do that. I'm _comfortable_ with Defense—it's my best subject. I think I should be spending more time working on other subjects which I'm not as comfortable with, rather than getting involved in a time-consuming Defense Club."

Hermione and Fleur shared a look, and for a moment, Harry was almost amused—they had become so close in the last month that they almost seemed to exchange entire conversations in the space of one glance.

"Do you think it will be all that bad?"

Harry shrugged. "I would think a lot of work goes into running a club like this."

"Who says you have to do it alone?"

"That's not what I meant," Harry said with some exasperation. "I am well aware that you were not intending me to do all the work on my own. That doesn't change the fact that running a club will be time-consuming and will pull our attention away from other things, like my other classes."

"I hardly think you have anything to worry about," soothed Hermione. "You do well in your studies, Harry, and your increased dedication is only going to help. I don't think this will take up so much of your time that you'll have to neglect your other classes."

Shaking his head, Harry returned Hermione's gaze. "I still don't think I can juggle this many things and not have my school work suffer."

The girls once again exchanged a glance, before Hermione gently leaned forward and grasped the hand which was not already held by Fleur. "Harry, why don't you tell us the real reason you don't want to do this?"

Sputtering, Harry glared at her, a look she returned with a placid, yet expectant, smile. "I think I've already told you."

"No you haven't. All the things you've said are all reasons, but I don't think they are the real reason why you're so set against this. You've always shared things like this with me before—why can't you now?"

Harry was frustrated with her continual pushing, and so snapped, "Is it wrong to want to have a normal year for once?"

"No, it isn't," Fleur soothed. "But you should consider that 'normal' is not a word which describes you, nor should it be something you aspire to be."

"What do you mean?"

"Harry, you are not normal," said Hermione affectionately. "You are a great Quidditch player and flyer, you are a prodigy in Defense, and you are loyal, intelligent, brave and cunning—a true mix of the four houses. The fact that you are the only known survivor of the killing curse does not even begin to scratch the surface of who you are as a person."

Feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, Harry looked away, embarrassed at the things they were saying about him. Harry did not consider himself to be all that—he was just Harry Potter, one of the guys. Others could have all the fame and fortune—he just wanted to be himself.

"Your relatives told you all your life that you were not normal, right?" Fleur asked.

When Harry indicated that she was correct, she continued, "Regardless of what your relatives told you, _their_ brand of normal is not something you should aspire to. Think of it—would you really want to be like them if _they _are the ones who are normal?"

Harry had perhaps not thought of it in quite those terms, but he immediately understood that Fleur was correct and said as much.

"You are _not_ _normal_, Harry," Fleur continued. "You are a symbol of hope. You are a natural leader. You are the focus of a Dark Lord who considers you to be the greatest threat to his power. He must have some reason for believing that, even though we don't understand it. Perhaps you should begin to act like the exceptional person we all know you are. Normal people live in the world; exceptional people _change_ the world."

In truth, Harry had never thought of the matter in that fashion. He had never felt like a born leader, or any other sort of leader—he had always just wanted to be a normal teenager and worry about normal things, not have the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

But the girls—possibly the two most important people in his life—were urging him to be more. Did he have it within him to be more? Did he even want to?

With these two pushing him, he knew he at least had a shot. He had known ever since entering this world that there was much wrong with it, much which could be fixed. Starting up a Defense Club was a small step, but it could turn into so much more. They were right in that Voldemort needed to be opposed, and perhaps it was the younger generation which needed to do so. There was no better way to begin the task of readying them than to start this club.

But regardless of his wants and desires, he knew that it was not likely, not with the damnable scar on his forehead, that he would ever be considered to be normal. Like it or not, he _was_ a galvanizing figure, and others would follow him if he showed them the way. Perhaps Fleur was right and it was time to take a lead in taking the fight to Voldemort. Perhaps it was time to grow up.

"Can I think about it tonight?" Harry asked, not wanting to make a snap decision.

They smiled at him, assuring him that they did not have any intention of forcing him to do something he truly did not want to do.

"Harry," Hermione spoke up as they were getting up to leave, "I should apologize to you as well. I know I get a little…" she blushed and ducked her head, "single-minded when I decide something. I shouldn't have badgered you about the club."

"Yeah, Hermione, you're a Gryffindor," Harry said with a smirk. "Whatever you do, don't go badgering people. Otherwise, we'll all think you have become a Hufflepuff."

Groans and playful smacks on the shoulder met Harry's poor attempt at a joke, but he grinned at Hermione, before placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Seriously, Hermione, don't worry about it. I know you are passionate in your beliefs, and whatever happens, I should never snap at you like that. I think _I_ should be asking for _your_ forgiveness."

"But you already did," was Hermione's impish reply.

"And I think we should let it rest now," said Fleur.

She stepped next to Harry, and soon her hand was comfortably ensconced within his own. Harry smiled at them both, indicating that he agreed with Fleur's statement, and the three ambled from the room and made their way back toward the Gryffindor common room.  
Harry, however, was still thinking about what had happened the past few hours, and he was beginning to wonder about his relationships with the two attractive girls with whom he was walking. Fleur was still somewhat of a mystery. They had made some progress—the little touches of affection, like their growing propensity to hold hands, were becoming more commonplace—and yet they were still very much becoming accustomed to the situation in which they found themselves and getting to know one another. She was a beautiful and brilliant young woman, and Harry was certain that he could come to love her very easily. He was not willing to push the issue however, being more than content to relax and allow their relationship to deepen without any artificial attempts which would just, in his opinion, make the process that much longer and more difficult.

As for Hermione, well in her case, Harry was not certain any longer what he was to think. Hermione was his best friend—it was a subject which he had contemplated many times in the past. He did not know where he would be without Hermione.

And that was part of the problem; he was now pledged to Fleur for the rest of his life, and he would not betray her. However, the thought of losing what he had with Hermione caused Harry to feel an almost physical pain—he did not think he could do without her in his life. But what would happen as they got older? Surely some day some lucky bloke would see Hermione for what she was—a truly exceptional young woman. The man would then sweep her off her feet and they would marry. The thought troubled Harry excessively. Why? What did he truly feel for his best friend? Was he in love with her? He was not certain of his feelings, but he did know that he would not betray Fleur; such a thing was unthinkable.

As they arrived at the portrait hole, Harry decided to put those thoughts out of his mind—it was a topic to be considered another day. They stepped into the common room and took their former seats, once again pulling out their homework which had been interrupted by Harry's outburst.

But as he worked on his homework, Harry could not help but notice Ron giving him dark looks as he worked on his own assignments. Knowing what his friend was likely about, Harry had to suppress a grin—it was quite the reversal for _Ron_ to be angry with _Harry_ for his treatment of Hermione. Mentally, Harry prepared himself for a confrontation, as Ron appeared as though he wanted to have it out. He did not have long to wait.

They had retired to the dormitories early—the day having been long and difficult, and Harry found himself tired and ready to head to bed early. When he approached his bed after brushing his teeth and washing up, he was accosted by Ron who wore a very determined expression on his face.

"You were out of line tonight, Mate," he stated without preamble.

"I know, Ron," Harry replied.

The best way of dealing with Ron in a situation like this—not that he had much experience in this _exact_ set of circumstances—was to agree with him and allow him to get his opinion off his chest. Ron's anger could be impressive when provoked, but it usually ran its course fairly quickly, unless he was of a mind to hold a grudge. Harry did not think he was in such a mood at this point.

"I've already apologized to Hermione, Ron, so you can leave off the big brother act."

Ron cocked his head to the side, clearly taken aback, yet thoughtfully considering Harry's words. He shook his head after a moment.

"All right then, but I hope you've worked it out."

"We have."

"Good, because I don't want you taking my place. _I'm_ the one who makes her cry, and _you're_ the one who sticks up for her."

Thinking that Ron's joke was in poor taste, Harry gazed pointedly at his friend.

"All right, all right," Ron conceded, his hands raised in surrender. "I know I've got some things to work on myself, and I've been trying, you know. But I've never seen you go at Hermione like that before, though if you'd done so, maybe I would have got my head out of my arse before now."

"What do you mean?" asked a curious Harry.

Ron sighed. "I guess I finally saw a bit of myself in the way you yelled at her," Ron admitted.

"It's not easy seeing something like that about yourself, is it?" Harry stated, with some sympathy.

"It isn't, mate, but now I've finally figured it out, I figure I can do better with her. She doesn't want to go out with me, but she's still my friend. I know I need to treat her better to keep her as a friend."

Ron appeared as though he wanted to say something further, but he glanced around at the other three occupants of the room, and seemed to think better of it. He smiled hesitantly at Harry before saying good night and making his way to his bed.

Harry lay down on his bed, his mind immediately working over the problem of the Defense Club. Fleur and Hermione had not convinced him yet of the benefit of his leading it, but though he would have liked to dispute its necessity, he could not. Clearly this was something which would be a benefit for not only him and his friends, but for anyone who was invited to attend as well. Though he was tired, Harry was a long time falling asleep that night, and by the time he did, he had almost reconciled himself to appeasing his two closest female friends—though perhaps _appease_ was not really the right word—and agreeing to their request. First, however, there were a few things he wanted to make clear with them, and a few ground rules he thought would be necessary.

* * *

The next morning found the trio up earlier than usual. Though it was unplanned, all three gravitated to the common room before most of the other house members were up and, deciding that there was no time like the present, they made their way toward the Great Hall for breakfast.

Initially, when they sat down at the table, each of the three concentrated on their meal, and although Harry did not truly feel very hungry, he dutifully ate his breakfast. Thoughts of the proposed club and what he wanted to clarify with the girls rolled through his mind the entire time.

To either side, he could see the girls eying him somewhat nervously. Clearly they were convinced that this plan was the answer to their dilemma, though their behavior over the past weeks had been as much a hint as their current demeanors. That thought of course sent Harry off on a tangent, thinking that perhaps he should have been paying a little more attention, rather than focusing so much on his concerns and worries. Hermione was, after all, very intelligent, and he had trusted her judgment in the past. If he had thought about it a little more, perhaps the previous evening's unpleasantness could have been avoided. There was obviously a lesson there, and one Harry was determined not to forget.

At length, however, he decided that as amusing as their behavior was in their attempts to act nonchalant, it was not getting them anywhere. Class time was approaching, and Harry really wanted to get this sorted out and make a decision now.

"All right, you two," he said, breaking the silence. "I suppose we should talk about this idea of yours."

The two young ladies acquiesced, and Harry continued. "You know what I'm worried about. Have either of you thought how you wanted to do this?"

Hermione was the first to speak. "Well, we don't have everything planned out…"

"What?" Harry demanded cheekily. "Hermione Granger doesn't have everything planned out yet? You must be slipping—usually you have it all done in advance."

"Prat!" Hermione exclaimed, followed with a swat.

Harry just grinned at her impudently.

His jest seemed to have the desired effect of breaking the tension somewhat. Hermione rolled her eyes and continued in a more normal tone of voice.

"Right. Well, Fleur and I figured that we could all share the planning and running of the club."

"We could create a basic plan of what we want to accomplish each week," Fleur spoke up. "We begin each week by demonstrating the spells we are teaching, and then we split the attendees off into groups. Depending on how many we have to each meeting, we could have our friends who trained with Moody each take control over a group and be responsible for helping the students in their group learn the spells. Then the three of us could act sort of like roving instructors—we would go around the room helping out and giving additional demonstrations where required."

"And how much time would we need to prepare?" Harry asked.

"That depends on what we want to teach," said Hermione. Harry smiled at her, hearing the tone of her voice and knowing that she was going into her _lecture mode_, which she so often did when she was explaining something.

"A lot of the spells we will need to teach we already know. For example, given what happened in the first war, we should likely teach the Patronus Charm. With Voldemort on the loose again, I would be surprised if he didn't get the Dementors to side with him. You already know that spell, Harry, so there wouldn't be much preparation."

"Moody taught us more than how to cast spells," Harry noted. "I presume you want to do more than that in the club too?"

The girls shared a glance. "Ideally, that would be best," Hermione said, speaking up for both of them. "Yes, part of the goal is to help people practice so they can pass their OWLs, but I think an equally important part is to train a group of students who will be able to defend themselves against the Death Eaters, and maybe even carry the fight back to them."

Harry frowned at the implication. "That's pretty dangerous, you know," he stated. "You're talking about turning school children into a fighting force—some of them could get killed."

"That is true, Harry," Hermione admitted, "but think about it: with Voldemort being back, we're all in danger already, and the danger will get worse the longer he is allowed to build his power."

"And some are in even more danger," Fleur added. "What about Dean Thomas, who is a Muggleborn? Or the Patils or Cho Chang, who are not originally from England? Voldemort will not look kindly on them either because he considers them mongrels."

Harry had to admit they had a point. Reluctant as he was to form a fighting group which would inevitably put its members in danger, they already were, as Fleur had pointed out. At the very least, they would be helping others learn to defend themselves, which would only be of benefit for them, and the entire wizarding world.

He was about to speak when Hermione nudged him, while throwing a significant glance at Fleur. Harry took it as he thought Hermione intended—someone was approaching who they definitely did not want to overhear their current conversation.

"Mr. Potter," the cloying tones of his new personal nemesis interrupted them.

Harry turned to see the hideously pink-clad Defense professor standing nearby, while affixing the students with her normally false cheerful gaze.

"You and your… _friends_ are here early today, Mr. Potter," Umbridge trilled in her girlish voice.

However, Harry did not miss the emphasis, nor did he miss the implication that Umbridge thought both of his closest friends to be lower than dirt. He would dearly have liked to respond and put the woman in her place, but the events of the previous day and his discussion with the two girls about the need to hold his temper made resisting the temptation that much easier. But that did not stop him from wanting to witness the payback which he would make certain the detestable woman eventually received. Yes, she would receive it, he promised himself. Her, and all others like her.

"Just wanted to get an early start on the day," Harry responded in a chipper and eager tone of voice which he had learned truly annoyed the toad woman. It was, after all, the only weapon in his arsenal against her, at present, and he had come to the point where he had begun to use it often, especially when he felt himself in danger of giving in and snapping at the woman.

Umbridge sniffed with ill-concealed disdain. "Very commendable of you, I am sure."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry continued in the same tone. "I am trying my best."

Umbridge did not say anything in response. Rather, she directed an expression of sweet approval—with which she attempted to cover the malice in her eyes—at Harry, and walked away toward the staff table, her nose held higher in the air than was her wont.

Grinning at his friends, Harry motioned to the entrance. The three gathered their things and left the Great Hall to find a location more conducive to a private discussion. After all, it was somewhat silly of them to have been discussing this in the Great Hall in the first place. There were too many eyes to see and ears to hear.

They made their way from the hall and through the school, eventually stopping in the same classroom in which they had had their discussion the evening before. They settled down to speak once Fleur had once again cast privacy spells.

"What about Umbridge?" Harry asked without preamble.

"What about her?" said Hermione.

"Well, I assume you don't want her to know about this."

It was a question and not a statement, but Hermione nodded her head in agreement anyway.

"That means that we won't be telling any of the other professors either?"

"Plausible deniability, Harry," Hermione responded. "We don't want Umbridge to have any ammunition she could use to try to take over the school, so if our professors don't know what we're doing, then they can't be held responsible."

Harry frowned. "But we can."

"Perhaps," interjected Fleur. "But what could be done to us? Starting up a group like this is not against school rules, after all, and the only ones who may take exception are Fudge and Umbridge, and then only because they are paranoid that Dumbledore is trying to take over the Ministry. If Dumbledore is able to state, even under Veritaserum, that he had no knowledge of what we were doing, then any suspicion is deflected off him, and onto us. The worst we would get is a slap on the wrist for failing to clear the club with one of the professors."

It was well thought out, but it would have to be, considering it was Fleur and Hermione's brainchild. And it just may work. There were only a few other things he wanted to work out before he agreed to it.

"You mentioned that we would act like instructors. What about our practice time?"

"Why Harry, have you forgotten we need to prepare?" asked Hermione impishly. "On the nights we run the club we would instruct, but we could have our own practice sessions with our friends on other nights. And besides, I think there would be plenty of practicing going on while instructing."

"We could even run some dueling tournaments," said Fleur with some excitement. "That would help us all know where we stand and where we need to improve."

"Good idea," said Harry, "though I think some of the younger students might find themselves in over their heads."

"So, have some mini-tournaments then," suggested Hermione. "Rank everyone based on how well they are doing, and have several smaller tournaments."

It _was _a good idea, and a perfect way to put Moody's advice to work. "What about the location?"

"That we haven't figured out yet," admitted Hermione. "We obviously need a place where we won't be interrupted or found out by Umbridge, but I'm not sure of where we could do it."

"Well," began Harry slowly, "if nothing else, there's always the chamber."

Hermione wrinkled her nose in distaste. "From what you've told me, Harry, it doesn't sound like a very good place to spend several hours."

"No," Harry agreed, "but it's very secure. I doubt that Umbridge is a Parselmouth, so there's no way she'd be able to catch us."

"True, but she could catch us going in or out of it—I think we should look for a better place."

Harry shrugged his shoulders. As the only one of the three who had ever been down to the chamber, he was well aware of the fact that it was not truly suitable for their needs. Needless to say, the millennia of filth which had built up down there would not help matters either. They would need to find a better place, and he figured the first place to start looking was to ask Fred and George—if anyone knew of such a place, it would be the Gryffindor pranksters.

"Have you two got a list together of who you want to invite?"

"Does this mean you're going to do it?"

"Looks like I don't have a choice," said Harry with a smirk. "You two will pester me until I agree, so I might as well save myself from being annoyed by just agreeing now."

A glowing Fleur let out a little squeak and hugged Harry, pressing her lips against his cheek. What surprised Harry, however, is that Hermione mirrored Fleur's actions from Harry's right side, so Harry found to his astonishment, that he had two soft pairs of lips attached to his cheeks.

It did not last long. Hermione seemed to immediately realize what she was doing, and she blushed and pulled away. A quick glance at Fleur showed that she was not angry at Hermione's presumption—as a matter of fact, she appeared rather amused at the brunette's actions. Hermione did not say anything, but it was clear she was embarrassed, if her pink cheeks and nervous glances were any indication.

"Well, it's not every day a guy gets kissed on the cheeks by _two_ pretty girls," Harry deadpanned.

Hermione's blush deepened and she began stammering, presumably to apologize. Fleur cut her off, though, with a bit of well-placed humor to complement what Harry had said.

"We had better be careful, Hermione," said in a dry tone of voice. "Harry's going to get a swelled head with this kind of attention."

Giggling in spite of her embarrassment, Hermione made a great show of gathering her things and rising. She looked to her two friends and with exaggerated casualness said, "Well, shall we head off to classes?"

Harry shook his head and rose, assisting Fleur to her feet. He then wrapped his arms around both girls and ushered them from the room.

"I think you're right, Hermione," he said. "I'm sure glad I have you two around to keep me grounded. You two are the best."

Both girls beamed as they allowed him to lead them from the room.

* * *

Sitting in the small breakfast nook, Sirius Black was enjoying his meal, his newspaper, and the new direction his life had taken.

_"These French certainly know how to eat breakfast,"_ he thought as he savored his sweet treat. A chocolate-filled croissant was something one would rarely find in England as a breakfast food and Sirius, who had been legendary at Hogwarts for his sweet-tooth, took every opportunity now to indulge. He deserved it, he thought, considering the hell on earth in which he had been imprisoned for more than twelve years, not to mention the equally hellish slop that passed for food.

He glanced around, noting the tastefully decorated and comfortable furnishings of the Delacour home, noting the difference between this affluent family dwelling and the dark and dirty hole in which he had been raised. The Delacours had insisted he treat the chateau as his home during the course of his sojourn in France, and he found that he was very happy and at ease here. It did not hurt that that the Delacour house-elves saw to his every need and fondly looked to him as a member of their human family. It was the perfect place to rest, recuperate, and get his life back in order, and one which he was happy to have at his disposal. And though he would not have thought that the solitude would suit him, due to his gregarious and social personality, he found that dealing with the demons in his mind often required quiet and an undisturbed location. And when he felt like it, he had made a few acquaintances in France, and the Delacours were just a short Portkey journey away—being friendly with someone of Jean-Sebastian's influence in France certainly did have its perks. Jean-Sebastian was well on the way to becoming a good friend and powerful ally, and Apolline was lovely and welcoming. It appeared that he had chosen well when he had made the decision to involve them in Harry's life.

Sirius's recovery was for the most part going smoothly. Though he was still plagued at times with nightmares of his time in Azkaban, and at times he brooded over the unfairness of life, those times were becoming fewer and further in between. All in all, his therapist assured him that he was making tremendous progress.

Chuckling, Sirius thought of the woman he saw twice weekly as his therapist. She was the one part of his recovery which _was not_ proceeding according to plan. Audrey St. Laurent was a tall, statuesque blond, who was—unaccountably—still single, though she was older than Sirius by a few years. Naturally Sirius, as a self-proclaimed ladies' man, had immediately become infatuated with the beautiful woman, but thus far all his attempts at coming to know her intimately had failed. In fact, she seemed to take great satisfaction from shooting him down and reminding him at every opportunity that it was inappropriate for a mind healer to be seeing her patient in any capacity which was not professional.

Ah well, Sirius reflected, it was more the fun of the chase than the catching of the prey, after all. For now, he was having fun honing his flirting abilities, which had rusted during his stay at Chateau Azkaban, needless to say—Dementors were _not_ exactly adept at the practice—and generally attempting to make the woman blush. Not that he was having that much success in that endeavor either…

Soon he would be ready to return to England and build a new life with his godson, taking his rightful place in society, and once again defying Voldemort and spitting in his eye. He was determined that Lily and James would have their justice, and he would use every knut of the Black family fortune to see it done if necessary.

His musings were cut short by the sight of an owl drifting in through an open window and landing on the table in front of him. Sirius promptly removed the parchment from the owl's leg, while Matty popped in and placed a dish of water and a generous helping of owl treats in front of the bird. Since it did not appear to be eager to depart again, Sirius assumed the owl was waiting for a reply.

He opened the letter and though he was somewhat surprised at its contents, he was not at all displeased with it. In fact…

A devilish grin slipped over Sirius's face, as he contemplated the possibility for a prank—as a Marauder at heart, such an opportunity could not be allowed to slip away without taking it up.

At his request, the house-elf provided him with a quill and parchment, and Sirius set about drafting his reply. He could hardly wait—things were looking up in Sirius Black's world.

* * *

For the next few days, Harry, Hermione, and Fleur, along with the rest of their friends, who were quickly brought into the discussion, debated the composition of those who would be invited to join their proposed club. It was perhaps unsurprising that just about every Gryffindor of Harry's year and up were on the list—and a few from the younger years as well. However, though Gryffindors constituted most of the planned club members, there were a number of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws who, after some debate, were considered trustworthy enough to receive invitations.

The one task, in which they did not have any success, was in locating a suitable location for their meetings. Harry was insistent that they had to find a place which was almost foolproof in its defenses and simply commandeering an unused classroom and placing protective charms on it was not good enough. In addition, the members had to be made aware of the location and times of the meetings. To offset this problem, Hermione and Fleur charmed a number coins with a protean charm to alert potential club members of the times of future meetings. Once they had a meeting place, they would rely on their members to spread the word to their friends, and ultimately to all those who were on the list for possible membership. However, they were completely at a standstill until a location could be determined.

Through all of this, Fleur gave as much assistance as she was able, but for the most part she simply listened and absorbed what she could of what her friends were saying. She was the newcomer to the school, and as such, she could not give much advice on the other students, after all, and she was by far the least familiar with the castle. On the planning side, she, Hermione and Harry worked closely to come up with a list of activities for the club, once they were able to officially get it off the ground.

Other than that, Fleur's days were spent with her friends and housemates, getting to know everyone, and learning what she could about the new school she found herself attending. A month had gone by and Fleur had quickly adjusted to the new school. It was different from Beauxbatons, but not necessarily in a bad way, the major difference, of course, being the house system, which did not exist in her old school. As a result, though the student body of Beauxbatons still had its share of cliques and rivalries, it was in no way comparable to the rivalries which existed at Hogwarts.

It was almost incomprehensible, but true—it seemed that generally only the barest of relationships existed between members of the different houses. There were of course some exceptions, but Fleur came to understand that those exceptions often seemed to be between those friends who had known one another before coming to school. In general, the houses interacted on only the most rudimentary of levels, and when they did, it was almost always with a certain distrust and wariness. And heaven forbid a Gryffindor and a Slytherin actually speak to one another without resorting to threats and intimidation. Fleur quickly became aware of the fact that Luna being part of their group was somewhat of an oddity, as normally she would be expected to stick with "others of her own house." The fact that very few in her own house seemed to tolerate the quirky girl, much less like her, added to the fact that she had been Ginny's childhood friend, seemed to make it easier for her to associate with mostly Gryffindors. However, she was an exception, rather than the rule.

All in all, though, Fleur found herself content with her new home, and happy to be there. Here in Hogwarts, she felt that she had gained some true friends for the first time in her life, and possibly more importantly—acceptance. And, she was becoming closer to Harry and Hermione all the time.

The one thing which was not going well was her time in Defense class. She could not claim to have been singled out to the extent that Harry had, but she was well aware of the professor's opinion of her, from the way Umbridge ignored her whenever possible, to the barely concealed contempt which she was favored with whenever the woman did actually acknowledge her.

The Friday after they had finally persuaded Harry to start the club, Fleur gathered her books and departed the Defense classroom in the company of the other Gryffindors. Due to the size of the class and the number of students who had either not obtained the grades sufficient to continue on to NEWT Defense, or had not continued with the subject, the entire seventh year was taught in one large class, which was scheduled for Wednesdays and Fridays. As such, she was also in class with some of the few acquaintances she had made the previous year, primarily with Ravenclaw house, with whom she and her Beauxbatons schoolmates had usually taken their meals.

She had begun to walk from the room in the company of the Weasley twins when a voice calling her name prompted her to stop.

"Hello Fleur," Roger Davies said as she turned.

She returned his greeting in a friendly manner, which was the mirror of his own. Roger was, quite honestly, an enigma to Fleur. To say that he had been an uninspiring date at the ball was a massive understatement. She had agreed to accompany him, in part, due to the fact that he had asked her to the ball with every appearance of composure and confidence, and as the thought of spending the entire evening with a drooling sycophant had been unappealing, she had thought he would be a good choice.

Sadly, she had been mistaken. Once he had been able to secure her as a date, it appeared the composure had deserted him, and the entire evening she had felt like she was drying herself off from the continual drool that even the small leak of her allure had engendered. Most of those in attendance had thought that she and Roger had left the ballroom late in the festivities for an _intimate interlude_ in the gardens; Fleur had laughed long and hard when Harry had told her of the speculation. In reality, Fleur had become tired of his constant adulation, and her feet had become sore because of his continued inability to stay off her toes when dancing. She had left to return to the Beauxbatons carriage, only to be followed by an amorous Roger. Fortunately, it had taken nothing more than a small burst of her allure to render him a gibbering idiot and allow her to make her escape, to nurse her toes and curse the unfairness of her life.

This year, Roger appeared to have overcome his susceptibility to her allure, and he could always be counted on to stop to talk to her in the hallways, or to exchange a few words in class. She was certain he was a good sort of boy, but something about his manner seemed to suggest to her that he was still influenced by her far more than he ought. She therefore attempted to limit the times of contact, and exchange only the barest of pleasantries with him if at all possible.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Roger commented as they continued to walk from the room.

"Well, you know how it is," Fleur responded vaguely. Roger was on the list of those to invite to the Defense Club, but Fleur did not want to let the cat out of the bag too early. "With schoolwork and everything that's going on with Defense class, things have been a little hectic."

"True. Seems crazy that it's already NEWT year, doesn't it?"

Fleur smiled and agreed, and they walked on in silence.

"Are you looking forward to your first trip to Hogsmeade?" continued Roger after a moment.

"I am—anything to get out of this castle. I never thought a building this big could become so stifling, but I am looking forward to leaving it for a while."

"Just wait until January," Roger replied with a smirk. "Scottish winters are not pleasant, you know."

Fleur, having grown up in the south of France, shivered a little theatrically. "Don't remind me," she said, remembering the previous winter at Hogwarts.

"So what are your plans for the Hogsmeade weekend?" he asked.

Glancing sidelong at him, Fleur wondered what he was getting at. He had to know the group she associated with, not to mention her betrothal to Harry—could she really have any other plans than to go to Hogsmeade with them?

"Harry and Hermione have promised to show me around the village," she said.

A flicker of something passed over his face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, and Fleur was unable to decipher it. "It's good to see they are taking care of you," was his only enigmatic reply. He then excused himself with a friendly good bye, and strode off in the direction of his common room.

Their interactions always seemed to be this way—short, desultory, and lacking in any substance whatsoever. What was he about? His little conversations which he initiated from time to time seemed innocuous enough, but Fleur could not help but wonder if he had some other objective in mind when they spoke. He would often make small talk as he had only moments ago, but he also avoided any conversation about Harry, or any of her other friends. She did not sense any sort of malice from him, but she also could not feel entirely comfortable with him either.

Shrugging, Fleur put it from her mind. Aside from Roger and Luna, and a few other acquaintances she had made the previous year, Fleur had very little direct contact with anyone other than her own housemates. The atmosphere in the school was simply not conducive to creating lasting friendships with the members of other houses. If nothing else, the club they were planning would be good in the sense that it would at the very least promote some interaction between members of the disparate houses, and possibly a little cooperation at the same time. The school could only benefit from it.

As for the other girls with whom she had not yet become acquainted, whether they regarded her in the same light as her Beauxbatons contemporaries had, or were just simply not interested due to the fact that she was not one of their own, she could not say. The one thing she could say with absolute certainty was that the Slytherins by and large viewed her as little more than an intelligent animal. In fact, some of the looks she received from certain members of that house—particularly the older boys—brought nightmarish stories of kidnapped Veela sold into sexual slavery to her mind. Though the world was in general more civilized now, such traffic did still exist, a fact which accounted for some of her father's protectiveness toward her and Gabrielle. Some of those Slytherin boys—particularly Malfoy and his cronies—would be only too happy to use her and sell her, she thought. She was glad she had the protection of her friends, as the school would be a very nervous place without it.

* * *

_Updated 06/07/2013  
_


	19. Chapter 18 – The Defense Club

**Chapter 18 – The Defense Club**

By the time the weekend rolled around, Harry was ready to leave the castle for a day in Hogsmeade. His studies had been going well, plans for their Defense club were proceeding—with the obvious exception of where they were going to hold it—and all in all, regardless of the presence of Umbridge, Harry found himself more content in the school than he had ever felt before. But as much as he was enjoying school this year—aside from Defense and potions, of course—it had not exactly been a relaxing year. The opportunity to escape from the castle for a few hours was welcome.

The Gryffindor upper years had decided to go to the village as a group, though they would likely go their separate ways once they actually got there. A funny thing had happened in that the fifth years were largely friendly with the seventh years—unsurprising as Fleur, the twins, Angelina and Alicia were seventh years—but the sixth years, with the exception of Katie Bell, were not part of their clique. For Harry this was not a great loss as the sixth year group was very small, and other than Katie Bell—who of course he had known as part of the Quidditch team since arriving at Hogwarts—the only other sixth year with whom he was at all familiar was Cormac McLaggen. And since Harry was not especially enamored with arrogance as a character trait, he was quite willing to ignore the ponce's very existence.

After breakfast, Harry returned to his room to gather his winter clothing, before making his way back down to the common room where he waited for the others to return. A few moments later he was greeted by the sight of his fiancée descending the stairs. Fleur had dressed herself in a light blue jacket which was befitting of chill in the air, and though her jeans were fit snugly, they did not appear to be painted on like some he had seen in the Muggle world. She had on a pair of soft leather boots and to complete the ensemble, her hair was pulled up in a French braid, covered by a white, woolen hat in the beret style.

Harry was mesmerized—she was absolutely stunning. He walked over to her and bowed slightly, taking her hand and tenderly bestowing a kiss upon it. "Hello Fleur—you are looking absolutely beautiful this morning."  
Fleur giggled lightly at his gallantry. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek affectionately. "Thank you, Harry. You are not looking so bad yourself."

"Smooth, Loverboy," said a grinning Hermione as she descended the stairs behind Fleur. "Looks like there may be some hope for him after all," she commented to Fleur.

"Oh, I think with the right guidance Harry will work out just fine," Fleur responded as she stepped to Harry's side and took his arm in her hand.

"Perhaps I am hopeless," was Harry's pleasant reply. "But it doesn't take a genius to recognize beauty when it stares you in the face."

This time Fleur actually did blush lightly, though it was evident in her fond smile that she was more than pleased with Harry's comments.

Harry kept hold of Fleur's hand on his arm, and when the entire group had gathered, he switched to take her hand as they made their way down toward the entrance hall laughing and joking with one another along the way. There, they met Luna, before they finally made their way out of the entrance and down toward the village.

It was a fine October morning and the air was clear and crisp without being cold as it would become in later months. All in all, Harry felt it was a good day, with his closest friends at his side, and his beautiful fiancée walking next to him, hand ensconced in his, talking animatedly with his closest female friend.

The sight of Hermione and Fleur getting along so well brought a smile to his face, and considering Hermione's apathetic attitude toward Fleur the previous year, it was a marvel that they were now such close friends. They shared everything: confidences, gossip—inasmuch as Hermione gossiped—and they were fiercely protective of one another, and of him. It was very satisfying, he decided, to have two such wonderful girls so concerned about him. He liked it very much, he decided.

They had walked for several moments, the group fluidly shifting places and talking amongst themselves, though Harry kept his grip on Fleur's hand, and Hermione kept her place by Fleur's side. They had just left Hogwarts grounds when Harry found Ginny walking by his side.

"Hey, Harry," Ginny said, with just a trace of a blush. "How's it going?"

Harry smiled, indicating to her that all was well, and they walked for a few moments exchanging pleasantries of the sort which friends sometimes do.

"Have you found a place for the Defense Club yet?" she asked, suddenly changing the topic.

"Not yet," Harry admitted. "We've thought of a bunch of different possibilities, but nothing that will keep us safe from Umbridge."

"Have you tried asking someone else?" said Ginny after a moment's consideration.

"Like professors or such?" Harry asked. When she nodded Harry replied, "We'd prefer not to involve the professors; they can truthfully say that they knew nothing of the club if it is ever discovered."

"Keep at it, Harry," she said. "I'm sure you'll figure something out. You can do anything you put your mind to."

She then hurried forward to walk next to Luna, while Harry watched her with a bemused smile. Ginny appeared to be much more at ease around him lately, and though he was grateful for her newfound confidence, her tendency to shower him with praise, state her confidence in his abilities, or stare longingly at him at times prompted him to wish for a little less of her attention. She was obviously not truly over her crush of him, even though he was grateful for her attempts to act normally in his presence. She was a very nice girl, he had decided, and had the situation with Fleur been different, _and_ his relationship with Hermione not been quite so close, he admitted, he might have been interested in Ginny.

Putting the subject of Ginny from his mind for a moment, Harry glanced back at his two companions, only to find that Fleur was eying Ginny with a look which contained a small measure of animosity. He exchanged a look with Hermione on Fleur's other side, but Hermione merely smiled at him and shrugged. It only lasted a moment before Fleur glanced in his direction, smiled, and returned to her conversation with Hermione.

Puzzled, Harry returned to his own thoughts. Though the older witch was not openly antagonistic, there were times where Harry got the distinctive impression that Fleur did not truly like Ginny. No, perhaps it was not that she did not like Ginny; it was more that Fleur had a tendency to watch Ginny, like she was watching a predator, wary of when it would finally make its move. Fleur must know of Ginny's crush—it was not precisely a secret, after all, and at times it was blatantly obvious. It was almost as though she felt it necessary to warn the younger girl away from her territory, and made no bones about the fact that Ginny was not allowed to show Harry any affection which was anything more than friendly. Her behavior was understandable, considering they were all but engaged, but strangely, it was only Ginny who was subjected to this scrutiny from Fleur. Not even Hermione…

Harry had to turn his head to hide a sudden burst of embarrassment, and what he assumed was his flaming cheeks. He had thought over and over again about what had happened during the previous week, and he could still not make it out. Fleur kissing him on the cheek was no big deal—she had done it on occasion since they had become betrothed and Harry had gotten used to her displays of affection. Hermione had also done it once or twice, he reflected, so that was not exactly out of the ordinary either. But both of them at the same time? And without Fleur getting all territorial and protective? That was what confused Harry. Whereas Ginny definitely received the cold shoulder from Fleur at times—though Harry had to allow that if Ginny was trying to flirt with him, her attempts were painfully awkward, even by _Harry's_ standards!—Hermione, whose shows of affection were transparent and obvious, was not subjected to the same treatment.

It did not make sense. From all Harry knew of girls—and he was willing to admit he was somewhat clueless when it came to the fairer sex—he would have thought that Hermione's action would have had Fleur's wand out in an instant. Moreover, Harry was convinced that if Ginny had done the same, a drawn wand and some harsh words would have been on the mild end of Fleur's reaction. But instead of any such reaction, Fleur had merely looked amused at Hermione's behavior. Amused! It was almost as though Fleur had expected it, and was happy it had finally occurred. Why were the rules different for two different girls? Again, Harry would have thought the roles would have been reversed. He had spent every free moment the past four years with Hermione, while Ginny had merely been Ron's younger sister. If anything, Hermione would seem to be the greater threat.

Whatever was happening, Harry was determined to figure it out. It was no use asking them, he knew—they would only laugh and spout something about girls needing their secrets, if he did not somehow manage to offend them with his questions. No, he would have to simply keep a close eye on them and figure it out for himself.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind for the time being, Harry considered his fiancée, whose animated conversation with Hermione was continuing unabated. He was a lucky man, he decided, as he watched her. The morning sunlight streamed down through the Scottish morning, illuminating the pale gold of her hair, causing it to glow and sparkle. The chill in the air had pinked her cheeks and nose, heightening her already ethereal beauty, stopping the breath in his throat. Not even this morning as she had come down the stairs or her appearance at the ball had been as completely enchanting as the image she now presented.

And it was not just her appearance, he decided. She was kind and considerate to all she knew, she was intelligent and competent, and she was highly personable and approachable, once you were able to penetrate the veneer of haughtiness she erected to protect herself. There was much to like; in fact, if he had known her this well last year, he could not imagine not becoming highly infatuated with her then. As a betrothed, well he was not quite certain yet. Infatuation with a young woman he was coming to know was one thing, but in a marriage relationship, he did not think that infatuation was enough—it would wear off sooner or later. They had made significant strides in becoming friends, and for the time being that was enough for Harry—he figured the more romantic feelings would come naturally, the more time he spent with her. She was a wonderful person, and to a certain extent, he considered himself lucky that he had become her betrothed.

"Umm, Harry," a voice from slightly behind him broke him out of his reverie.

Filing his thoughts away for later, Harry turned and noticed Ron regarding him somewhat nervously.

"Hey Ron," Harry said cheerfully. "What's up?"

"Can I talk to you alone for a few seconds?"

Curious, Harry agreed and, suspecting by Ron's nervousness and demeanor that the conversation was to be private, he dropped back, creating some space between themselves and the rest of their friends. He was not so insensible, however, that he did not recognize the knowing glances exchanged by Ginny and Hermione. Clearly they had known something was up.

The redhead walked by his side for several moments, apparently trying to work up his courage to say whatever he had in mind. Harry was content to allow him the space he needed; this was Ron's show.

"Harry, I just wanted to talk to you for a moment," Ron finally began. "I think I owe you an apology for the way I've acted."

"There's no need, Ron," Harry interrupted. "I thought we were past all that."

"But we're not," Ron insisted. "Harry, I know you are generally quick to forgive people, and you're a good person for it. But sometimes apologies need to be made, not only to put the matter in the past, but also to allow the person apologizing to make amends."

"Wow, Ron," said Harry with some amusement, "that's pretty deep for you."

"Oi, there's no need to be insulting," cried Ron. The good-natured smile on his face, however, belied his protestation.

"Okay then, Ron. Say what you need to say."

"Thanks, Harry," Ron replied, before he became serious again. "I know I acted wrongly during the tournament last year, and I guess my only excuse is my jealousy. I've truly enjoyed being your friend, not to mention the adventures we've had, and I want you to know that I was never in it to get close to the Boy-Who-Lived."

"And I've never thought you were," Harry said.

"That's just because you are a good person, Harry. I know I've not always given you reason to believe that. Thanks for your faith in me.

"A few things have happened, though, and they've opened my eyes."

Harry regarded him curiously. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, I was… talking with Hermione, and she mentioned some things and got me thinking. Then, there is the fact that you are… _different_ now."

"Different?" Harry asked, perplexed.

"Yeah. You are a lot more confident and at ease with others. I guess I have to put it all down to the fact that you have a loving a supportive family now."

Ron was quiet for several moments, thinking about what he wanted to say, and his silence allowed Harry to consider the matter himself. Was he all that changed since the Delacours had come into his life? The answer was obvious, and he knew immediately that Ron definitely had a point. He _did_ feel more confident now that he had a family's support, and that confidence extended not only to his schoolwork and his determination to do better, but also to his interactions with others. He liked it, he decided instantly, and he liked the direction his life was now going, with the exception, of course, of the continual thorn in his side that was Voldemort.

"I know that the Delacours support you far more than your relatives ever did, and I can see the good this has done you. I finally realized that though I was somewhat jealous of what you have, you have at times been equally jealous of what _I have_. It kind of put things in perspective, you know?"

"I do, Ron," replied Harry.

"I don't really have anything to be jealous over, so I've decided to try to see others the way they see themselves. Like walking in their shoes, I guess.

"That's why I wanted to apologize for my behavior last year and even to a certain extent this year."

"And what about Hermione?" Harry asked.

"Well, I'm not happy that she wouldn't go out with me—I won't lie about that," Ron said after taking in a shuddering breath. "But she has the right to choose, just the same as anyone else.

"I can still hope that she will change her mind, though," Ron said with a sudden grin.  
Harry laughed. "I guess you can at that. She's only sixteen, after all."

"Exactly!" Ron then got a sly look on his face, and he adopted a pose of manly nonchalance, while brushing his fingernails on his coat. "I figure I just have to give her some time to realize what she's been missing out on," he said pompously. "After all, a strapping, handsome lad like me—I'm betting she can't resist!"

Harry laughed at has friend's antics, joined a moment later by Ron. "Seriously, though, Hermione's a big girl and like I said, she has the right to choose. I'm not going to pine for her—I'd prefer to continue to be her friend."

"Good," said Harry. "I accept your apology, Ron, and I thank you for it. To be honest, I've always felt your biggest problem is your tendency to react without thinking."

"I know, and I've been working on that."

"Brilliant! Then, as far as I'm concerned, there is nothing else to say. Why don't we catch up with everyone?"

Ron responded with a grin and he quickened his pace until they had once again caught up with the group. Harry noticed a number of curious looks among those of their group who did not seem to be in the know about what had just happened, but when asked, Harry just told them, rather blandly, that it was guy talk and nothing serious.

* * *

Stepping into Hogsmeade for the first time was almost like stepping back into the eighteenth century. It was a quaint little village of steep thatched roofs, and sharply canted eaves, with colorful signs of the different shops all the way up and down High Street, which was the main avenue running through the heart of the village. It was not large, perhaps housing less than one thousand souls altogether. However, as Fleur understood it, Hogsmeade was somewhat of an alternative to the busier—and likely pricier—Diagon Alley, and as such, High Street was usually bustling during the day at any time of the year. Of course, the biggest days of the year were reserved for Hogsmeade weekends, in which the students of the nearby school would descend upon the village in droves, eager to spend their parents' hard-earned money.

Fleur was enchanted immediately. The main shopping thoroughfare in Paris was similar to Diagon Alley, with a definite French flavor, of course, and though there were others scattered throughout France, none that Fleur had seen looked like they had appeared straight off the illustration on a Christmas card. The village was homey and welcoming, and Fleur immediately determined that she could spend several hours quite contentedly perusing the shops.

Of course, wandering through the village would have to wait as, once they arrived, Hermione immediately dragged Fleur off to Tomes and Scrolls, the local bookstore. Fleur's amused glance back at Harry showed that he was not in the least surprised at his best friend's antics, and after he exchanged a few words with the rest of the group, he followed along behind them. Fleur was certainly not unwilling; though she was not the same level of bibliophile as Hermione, she was happy to expand her personal library, and was more than willing to put up with the eccentricity of the other girl.

They spent some time in the bookstore—not that an outing with Hermione could have any other result—but that was not all. Harry and Hermione, with some help from their other friends, with whom they crossed paths several times—Ron and Neville in particular spent most of their time with the trio—showed her the highlights of the village. Their visits included Gladrag's Wizardwear—where Fleur was treated to the unlikely sight of several very smelly, screaming socks in the front window—Scrivenshafts, where Hermione purchased some extra quills, and Honeydukes, where they indulged in an assortment of the establishment's sweet and tasty treats. They even strolled down to the end of the street to gaze at the Shrieking Shack, Harry and Ron relating the events of their third year, and the confrontation with Sirius Black.

The return journey toward the Three Broomsticks—which was where Harry had agreed they would all meet—led them past Zonko's, where they found Lee Jordan and the twins, perhaps somewhat unsurprisingly, given what Fleur knew of their general proclivities. The group stopped in the shop and exchanged a few laughing remarks with the twins before Fleur, who did not intend to buy anything, stepped from the shop to escape the press of eager students. Finding a bench across the street from the shop, she sat and watched as her friends laughed and talked.

She had not been sitting long, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun, when she was joined by a smiling Roger Davies.

"Hello Fleur," he greeted her as he sat down on the bench. "How are you enjoying your first visit to Hogsmeade?"

"Very interesting," said Fleur with a smile. "We don't really have anything like this in France. I feel like I've stepped through time to come here."

"It's pretty different, all right," Roger said as he sat down beside her. "But then again I suppose Hogwarts is a lot different from Beauxbatons."

"In some ways," Fleur confirmed. "But essentially it's still just a school, and an old one with many traditions much as Hogwarts."

"So the transition has been easy for you?"

"I don't know about easy," was Fleur's response. "The language and the different culture have been a bit of a problem at times, but it has been a new experience for me and for the most part an enjoyable one. I told you that things weren't always easy for me at Beauxbatons. The best part of being at Hogwarts is finding acceptance with a group of friends."

Roger paused a moment and shot a glance in the direction of the joke shop. Following his gaze, Fleur could see Harry and Hermione laughing with Ron through the shop window, looking like they had not a care in the world. A large part of that acceptance of which she had just spoken, she knew, was due to her connection with Harry and the fact that his friends had accepted her on his recommendation. However, she felt as though she was also liked for who she was, and this extended not only to Harry and his friends, but others as well—especially Angelina, Alicia and Katie, all of whom treated her as though they had known her for years. It was a wonderful feeling to be part of the group.

She returned her gaze to her companion, only to see him staring back at her with a look of intense concentration. "I'm glad you have found some acceptance here."

"Thank you," she replied.

"And how is it being on the arm of a celebrity?" Roger suddenly asked.

Surprised, Fleur paused for a moment. Roger had always avoided the topic of Harry in their past conversations, so his sudden desire to discuss the state of her relationship with him was a complete departure from his earlier behavior.

"It's not really like that," she finally said. "Harry is so unpretentious that he doesn't pay any attention to those things. He's happy just being Harry."

"So you're happy with him."

Though Fleur was not certain she wanted to discuss the exact state of her relationship with Harry—Roger _was_ no more than a casual acquaintance, after all—it was not something she felt she needed ignore either.

"I suppose I am," she replied, deciding to be honest, yet vague. "He's a good person—any girl would be lucky, I think."

"Well, I wish you the best," Roger said with what Fleur felt was a little forced jocularity. He stood and smiled. "Hopefully you can train him—he often appears at sea with you." Roger then laughed. "Most of the time he doesn't even look like he understands that he's engaged to you. He only holds your hand, and even then he looks like he doesn't know what to do with it. In fact, he seems to be much more comfortable with that Granger girl than anyone else."

Roger smiled at her a final time and started walking up the street, Fleur looking on with some asperity. Why was he making those comments? It was not as if he actually knew Fleur—or Harry and Hermione for that matter—nor did he know of their relationship. Fleur was happy with where they were and the direction in which they were going, and trying to force a deeper bond before it developed naturally would not be healthy in her opinion.

In particular, she found his comments about Hermione to be offensive. Their relationship predated Fleur's with Harry by years, and regardless of the state of their affection for one another or the exact state of their feelings, Fleur would never have dreamed of interfering with his friendship with her. If Roger thought he was upsetting her with comments about Harry and Hermione, he was in for a rude awakening if he ever learned that Fleur was pushing toward a closer relationship. Of course Fleur wished she could have him all to herself, but she had thought of this at some length and determined it was for the best…

"Fleur," Harry's voice interrupted her thoughts. He held out his hand and helped to her feet, and she smiled at him. Harry seemed to be paying much more attention to her today. She knew that he was being influenced by her looks to a certain extent, but Fleur was convinced the deeper feelings would follow in time. She just had to be patient.

"Was that Roger?" he asked.

"It was," said Fleur. "He talks to be me every so often."

Harry smiled at her before leading her down the street toward the Three Broomsticks where they were supposed to meet the rest of the group. As they walked, Fleur chewed over Roger's words, wondering if he should mention them to Harry.

At length she decided not to—Roger had not really said anything out of order, and telling Harry would serve no purpose. Roger might not mean anything by his comments, and Fleur preferred to simply wait and be wary of the other seventh year. Whatever his comments were directed toward, it really did not matter much—she and Harry were fine with their friendship and their feelings progressing the way they were.

The pub was filled with Hogwarts students when they arrived, but they were immediately waved over to a few tables which had been moved together. The rest of their friends appeared to have been waiting for them only a short time. An order of Butterbeers later and the group of friends were happily engaged in conversation, jokes, and friendly, bantering conversation.

At one point, Ron leaned over and gestured across the pub. "Looks like Malfoy isn't having fun."

Sure enough, across the way sat Malfoy with several other Slytherins. They appeared to be much quieter than the Gryffindor group, and Fleur could see Malfoy glancing from time to time over at their table, generally accompanied by his ever-present sneer. On his other side, Pansy Parkinson was speaking, presumably trying to gain his attention, but it was evident that she was not having much success the way Malfoy ignored her.

"He's probably just mad that Snape won't let him say anything he wants in Potions any more."

"And how long do you think that will last?"

Harry shrugged. "Probably not as long as it should. But any respite is welcome."

The conversation turned from that point, and soon they were speaking in low voices about the proposed Defense Club. And while Fleur felt that the particulars of the club had been decided upon, the troublesome prospect of where to hold the meetings was still a roadblock.

Some of the group thought Harry to be overly cautious and somewhat bull-headed about his insistence on finding a location where Umbridge could not discover them, but he was adamant. Jean-Sebastian and Dumbledore had impressed upon them the necessity of keeping their heads down and not giving her any reason to attempt to exert more control on the school than she already was, and Harry was determined to do exactly that. Fleur was happy that he was showing some forethought and caution, but on another level the further delay chafed. Something told her that this club and the training they would provide would be needed, and she felt it would be needed sooner rather than later.

"Harry, have you thought of asking Sirius if he knows a good place for us to meet?" Hermione asked.

"He's seen every location on the map, I would think," Harry replied with a frown.

"I still think it's worth asking him," said Hermione. "He may have some ideas that we haven't considered before."

"I suppose I could always call him on the mirror."

"Well look at what we have here," a grating, cultured drawl interrupted their discussion. "It's Potty's band of Mudbloods, misfits, and creatures—I really must speak with Madam Rosmerta about letting the riffraff in."

Lazily, Harry put his bottle of butterbeer down on the table, and stared up at Malfoy, while leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Ferret," he said in response, "those tired insults which always spew from that hole you call a mouth never change, do they? I guess all the inbreeding doesn't allow for any original thought."

Malfoy's nostrils flared, and he glared contemptuously back at Harry. "You'd better watch yourself, Potty. Or perhaps no one has ever taught you how to behave in the presence your betters."

"_If_ I was in the presence of my betters, maybe I would behave," snapped Harry. "Look, Ferret, I'm supposed to be relaxing on my day off, and I'd prefer not to have to take out the trash right now. Can we do this some other time?"

Growling, Malfoy reflexively reached for his wand when a voice stopped him.  
"Mr. Malfoy, there will be no fighting in my establishment."

Madam Rosmerta glided into view. "If you cannot leave my other customers alone, I will have to ask you to leave."

With a sneer and a glare, Malfoy stomped from the room, followed by his cronies. Harry looked at the pub owner and raised his bottle in salute, a gesture which she returned with a smile, before she returned to the bar and a group of Hufflepuffs who had just entered.

"Some of you Englishmen just never seem to learn," Fleur observed. It was amazing to her that Malfoy had been placed in the house of the cunning—the boy had not the tiniest iota of subtlety in his entire body. "You would think that he would eventually get the idea that Harry always gets the better of him."

"Hey, don't blame Malfoy on us!" one of the twins protested.

"Malfoy's family originally came from France, you know," the other chimed in.

"Well, why do you think they are no longer _in_ France?" Fleur replied with a saucy grin. "We couldn't stand them _there_, so we shipped them _here_."

General laughter met Fleur's statement, and the twins regarded her with some admiration.

"I think we've been had, Gred."

"Indeed, I believe you're right, Forge. She's good."

"And don't you forget it," Fleur added with a wink.

* * *

That evening after returning from Hogsmeade, Harry retrieved his mirror and went to find an unused classroom with Hermione and Fleur—the common room was not precisely private enough for the conversation Harry wanted have with his godfather, though most of the Gryffindors already knew about the proposed club. Harry almost felt himself becoming paranoid, he mused, as all this cloak and dagger stuff regarding the club was beginning to become somewhat of a habit. Better that than the alternative, he decided—he _really_ did not want Umbridge to find out what they were doing.

Sitting down, he unwrapped the mirror carefully, once again gingerly grasping the precious item with reverence—he was holding an artifact which his father had not only owned, but had a hand in creating. It was a relatively plain hand mirror, devoid of much in the way of decoration, yet containing a marvelous ability to contact someone over great distances.

"Sirius Black," Harry intoned.

They waited for several moments until the mirror suddenly lit up and Sirius appeared.

"Hey, Pup, I'm glad you finally remembered you can contact me on these."

Harry smiled at the words of his happy-go-lucky godfather. He fancied that the man he knew was coming to resemble more closely the boy his father had once known. The treatment he was receiving was working wonders.

"Hi Padfoot. What's up?"

"I think I should be asking you that," replied Sirius with a smirk. "You're the one who called me.

"Ah, I see you have Hermione and Fleur with you. Well done! You're getting to be almost as smooth with the ladies as your old dogfather!"

The predictable rolling of eyes ensued—which, of course, fazed Sirius not in the slightest—and once greetings and the obligatory banter were exchanged, they got down to business.

"We're looking for a place to hold secret meetings, and we were wondering if you knew of anywhere in the castle where we won't be discovered."

Sirius raised an eyebrow, while Hermione and Fleur giggled. "A _secret_ place, is it? I knew you were a fast worker, Harry, but this is amazing."

Blushing, Harry glared into the mirror, prompting his godfather to burst out laughing. "Don't get mad at me—you walked into that one!"

The girls' continued snickers told Harry that he had no support from that end, so he chose the path of least resistance—he ignored their childishness.

"If you could all be serious for a moment—don't say it!" he barked when an even larger smirk appeared on Sirius's face. "We have a problem that we'd like your help with. If you're just going to joke about it, maybe we should call Moony."

"That's fine, Pup," Sirius said with a snicker. "You've got my full attention. You say you need a secure location to hold some meeting. What do you need it for?"

When the three explained what was happening in the school, Sirius sat back for a few moments, apparently in deep thought.

"Umbridge is making a nuisance of herself, is she?" he asked mused out loud. "I can see where you would be worried about your exams. Are you sure she'll last long?"

Though Harry thought the question was somewhat odd, Hermione answered almost immediately. "Dumbledore says that we can't move against her until she gives us a good reason to do so. We just have to assume that she'll be here for the long haul."

"Maybe… I think you won't have to worry about her too much longer—she's the kind of person who cannot help but jam her foot into her mouth repeatedly. But I agree that your idea of a Defense Club is good, for more than just getting around your resident toad.

"Luckily for you I, of the padded foot, _do_ happen to know of a place which will suit your needs," Sirius continued with aplomb. "In our seventh year, James and I discovered a room on the seventh floor which will give you anything you need. We wished we had discovered it earlier, or we would have had far fewer detentions, I can tell you!"

"What do you mean, 'it will give you whatever you need?'" asked Fleur.

"You have to walk in front of the entrance three times, thinking about what you need. The door then appears in the wall and you can go inside. To top it off, whatever you wished for, you will find in the room. So, say you needed a replica of the Gryffindor common room. Walk past the door three times, and presto!—you get a replica of the common room."

The three all shared looks with a common thought—this room that Sirius was telling them about sounded almost exactly like what they needed.

"And where on the seventh floor is this room?"

"It's across from the painting of Barnabas the Barmy. You know—the one with the bloke trying to teach trolls to dance?"

At the blank looks from the teens, Sirius laughed. "Don't worry—you can't miss it. Just go up the grand staircase and down the corridor and you will find it. The painting is… interesting, to say the least. It sticks out like a sore thumb."

"That's great—thanks Sirius," Harry said, echoed by the girls in a chorus.

"No problem, Harry," replied Sirius. "Now don't be using that room tonight for anything _I_ wouldn't do." Sirius then stopped for a moment and contemplated, before a wicked grin once again appeared on his face. "For that matter, don't do some of the things _I_ _would_ _do_, either."

Rolling his eyes, and wondering if Sirius would ever grow up, Harry thanked Sirius—conveniently ignoring his godfather's admonition—before bidding him farewell and deactivating the mirror.  
"Shall we go have a look?" he inquired of his companions, noting the almost identical looks of eagerness on their faces. Their response was for each of them to grab one of his hands and to drag him from the room.

They made their way out into the halls of the school and toward the grand staircase. At one point they saw Umbridge at a distance. The woman did nothing more than to stare at them with a haughty glare before she turned up her nose and stalked off in the opposite direction. Other than that, they made their way toward the seventh floor while meeting relatively few others.

Proceeding down the corridor, they checked the paintings as they walked. When they finally found the right one, Harry reflected that Sirius had been right—it truly was almost impossible to miss.

"Looks like this is the place," Harry said unnecessarily.

"Do you want to do the honors?" Hermione asked.

Shrugging, Harry began pacing in front of the opposite wall, thinking that he needed a place to hold a Defense Club. After his third pass, a tall and ornate door appeared. Exchanging a glance with his companions, Harry approached the door and pulled it open.

Inside was a wide, vaulted space, complete with a dueling platform on the far side of the room, a row of training dummies along the right wall, several bookcases filled neatly with all manner of books, and a podium and several rows of neat chairs along the wall to their left.

They hurried inside while taking care to note that there was no one else in the hallway when they did so. As the door closed behind them, Hermione turned to Harry and Fleur.

"I'd like to test what Sirius told us about the door disappearing."

At Harry's questing glance, she continued, "I'll go back outside and see if the door stays or disappears. Give me about a minute, as I'd like to try to get the door to show up if it does vanish. Then open the door again and let me in."

Harry nodded his acceptance, and Hermione immediately stepped from the room. He waited for a few moments, before the door once again opened and Hermione stepped back into the room.

"Sirius was right!" she exclaimed, though her enthusiasm was blunted slightly. "When I left, the door disappeared, but when I tried to make it appear, it did and I was able to enter."

"Well, what would happen if you tried to make a different room appear?" asked Fleur.

With a contemplative look, Hermione once again stepped from the room. This time Fleur and Harry waited for over a minute before the door once again opened and Hermione entered.

"I can't make another room appear," she informed them. "I tried to get the room to appear as a copy of the Three Broomsticks, but it wouldn't, so I imagined this room again and the door showed up."

"Hmm, that's a bit of a limitation, isn't it?" Harry said with a frown. "I mean, if someone knows we're in here and knows in general what we're doing, they can get in."

The three thought about the problem for a few moments, before Hermione spoke up. "Well, the room gives you whatever you want, right?"

Harry and Fleur nodded.

"Well then, what if you tell it not to allow anyone else? Or maybe you could tell it to not allow specific people, or people with specific intentions?"

Harry grinned and caught Hermione in a one-armed hug—she truly was brilliant.

"I'll do the honors this time," he said. "You guys tell the room that you don't want me to find you, give me about a minute, and then open the door for me again if I don't come in first."

After they readily agreed, Harry stepped out into the corridor again, watching as the door once again vanished behind him. He gave it a few seconds, then began pacing in front of the door, asking for the room that Hermione and Fleur currently occupied. When that did not work, he tried to get the room to appear as a place to hold the Defense Club, but the door stubbornly refused to show itself. He continued to try, right up until the time the door opened.

"It didn't work?" asked Hermione excitedly.

"No. I couldn't get the door to open no matter what I did."

The three looked at each other with wide grins. "Then whoever has the room controls it, and no one can get in unless that person allows it."

"That's perfect!" Harry said.  
"I wonder if you can change the room once you're already inside," mused Fleur.

"Well, why don't we try?" asked Hermione. "Harry, you were the one who made the room appear—try getting a fireplace or something to appear as well."

At her words, a fireplace appeared in one of the walls, crackling merrily with what appeared to be a fire already roaring in its grate. The teens approached and quickly verified that it was indeed a real fire, and that the wood appeared to have just started burning. A quick request from Harry and several large pieces of wood were neatly stacked in a pile next to the fireplace. They even tried to determine where the smoke from the fire went, but were unable to get close enough—due to the heat—to figure it out. Hermione postulated that the room transfigured the smoke, or simply vanished it.

However it happened, the trio were quickly able to determine that the room was able to give them just about anything they needed, and that once someone was actually in the room, they could request something—in other words, the person who originally requested the room did not have to be the one to do so.

"I'm guessing, though, we can't get food from the room?" Harry asked.

"Assuming Gamp's law holds, that would seem to make sense," said Fleur.

Hermione nodded her agreement. "Guess there is nothing left to do but to make our final preparations." Harry smiled and directed the two girls from the room. Now that they had a location, there was planning to be done.

The journey back to the common room was uneventful, but Hermione was strangely silent, though Fleur was talkative enough for both girls. They were nearing the access to the common room when Hermione suddenly stopped and peered at Harry.

"What is it, Hermione?" Harry asked.

"Umm… Harry…" she stammered, flushing bright red.

Harry regarded her with some amusement—Hermione was generally self-assured, and rarely did she have trouble speaking her mind, especially with him.

"Yes, Hermione?" he asked with an exaggerated "get on with it" motion. As he had intended, Hermione swatted him playfully in response to his teasing.

"I was just wondering," she began, her smile fading away from her face, "you don't think Fleur and I were… pushy about this Defense Club, do you?"

Harry raised an eyebrow at her question. "It's a little bit late to be worrying about that, isn't it?"

Hermione colored once again, and Harry, seeing she was serious, immediately sobered. "Hermione, what brought this on now?"

"It's just that you were so adamant. And then you suddenly gave in…" Hermione trailed off, her voice and demeanor uncertain.

"Hermione's right," Fleur spoke up for the first time. "We've talked about it and agreed that we did not handle the situation very well, especially when you told us repeatedly that you did not want to do it. Instead of pestering you about it, we should have sat down from the beginning and discussed it."

"We just don't want you to think we didn't care about your concerns or that we think we know better than you," Hermione added in a rush.

Deciding it was better to honest, Harry gazed frankly at Hermione and responded, "I _was_ annoyed with you, Hermione. With you both, actually," he continued, looking at Fleur, who was watching him carefully. "I'm sure that comes as no great shock to either of you.

"But you know me," he continued, once again focusing on his best friend. "I can be just as stubborn as you are. If I really hadn't wanted to do this, I wouldn't have agreed to it, no matter what you said."

Hermione looked relieved. "Thanks, Harry. I just didn't want you to agree just to shut us up."

Chuckling, Harry wrapped an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "I know what I said, Hermione, but it was just a joke. I agreed to do it, because _you were right_, not because I didn't want to hear about it any more."

"Then we should take it as a lesson," Fleur spoke up, reaching out to grasp Harry's free hand. "We must make sure to talk everything out and come to an agreement, rather than allowing our disagreements to turn into arguments."

Harry smiled and squeezed her hand, doing the same with Hermione. The issue now settled, they made their way back to the common room, and their friends.

* * *

In the days leading up to the first Defense Club meeting, the trio took all of their friends to the room, showing them its amazing ability to give them anything they needed. Everyone agreed that the room was the perfect place to hold their meetings, and they went into action, making certain that everyone on the list was extended an invitation

It was Neville who figured out another rather important capability of the room which resolved another issue. The entrance to the room on the seventh floor was in the middle of a wide-open, if generally unused, hallway. With the number of potential entrants into the Defense Club, there was a real chance of someone noticing students disappearing on the seventh floor and not reappearing for some time later, especially since some of those students—specifically Harry and those close to him—were under such close scrutiny, particularly from the resident toad. The best plan they had been able to devise was to have the students head up to the room in staggered groups, so as to minimize the image of a large gathering.

Neville's idea resolved this problem rather neatly. Upon seeing the room and the amazing things it was able to provide, Neville suggested that perhaps it may also be able to provide an alternative access to the room. With some experimentation, they discovered that the room could be made to create a passageway to anywhere within the castle. Thus, they were able to make a passage appear in an unused—and more importantly, much less conspicuous—classroom, where the club members would first gather, then use the passageway to arrive in the room in time for the meeting. In fact, with Hermione's suggestion that it would be much better to spread the groups out and have them arrive from close to their own common rooms, they commanded the room to provide three separate entrances from rooms near to the three common rooms of the students involved—Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff—allowing each group to arrive without having to walk through the whole school to do so.

The first club meeting was scheduled for Wednesday night, and each member of the trio was full of anticipation—their planning had spanned some time, and they were glad to finally get under way. Harry was, it was true, feeling a little anxiety due to his continued concern about how he would fare when tasked to lead the club. However, all of the friends were excited as they saw the club as an opportunity to not only put the knowledge that Moody had taught them to the test, but they also considered it a chance to strike a blow against Voldemort and his minions. They would not be in any sort of a combat situation against them, but the club's very existence and purpose was almost akin to spitting in his eye.

All their machinations finally came to fruition that Wednesday evening, and at promptly seven in the evening Harry stood in the front of the group, considering those who had shown up for the meeting. In addition to the Gryffindor fifth and seventh years—and Katie, who it was sometimes difficult to remember was _not_ a seventh year, considering how much time she spent with Angelina and Alicia—Ginny was of course there, as well as the Creevey brothers, and a few others. From Ravenclaw, Luna of course attended, as well as Cho Chang, Marietta Edgecombe, Padma Patil, Anthony Goldstein, Roger Davies, and a few others. Hufflepuff's members included Susan Bones, Hannah Abbot, Justin Finch-Fletchley, with their entire seventh year's students attending as well. All in all, it was a good turnout.

Eschewing the lectern, which was far more formal than he wanted the club to be, Harry stood in front of the group and began to speak.

"All right everyone, let's get started."

The chattering between the gathered members quieted and Harry soon found himself as the focus of the room. Glancing to Hermione, who stood at his side, he took courage from her smile and turned to address the group.

"Thank you all for coming. We all know what Defense is like this year, and those of us who have OWLs or NEWTs are concerned that we will not learn enough to take our tests properly at the end of the year. That is why we are meeting today."

"What about Umbridge?" Roger Davies asked. "With her continual talk about how the Ministry doesn't want us casting dangerous spells, we're taking a risk being here at all—won't she shut us down when she hears of your club?"

Smirking, Harry answered, "That's why we intend to keep the existence of this group from her."

"How?" asked Justin.

"Take a look around you," said Harry, gesturing to the room. "All of you were led here through a passageway from locations near your common rooms, but can any of you say where we are?"

A low murmur ran through the assembled, as many took a quick look around the room. It was obvious that the question of just _where_ they were had been on the minds of many.

"This is a wondrous room which will give us anything we want or need, and Umbridge will not be able to find us here. She won't even be able to follow you through the passages."

Several quizzical looks appeared at Harry's declaration, but it was Padma Patil who voiced the obvious question. "What do you mean, Harry?"

"After you enter your passage and close the door behind you, the door simply will not open for anyone trying to follow you. In fact, if you all look at the wall you came in through, can you even see the door you came through?"

The surprise of the group was evident, as none of them had noticed that doors were indeed missing. Harry smiled at the group and decided that a further demonstration was required.

"Basically, this room will give you almost anything you want. For example, I need a long table in the middle of the room."

The murmuring reached much louder levels when the requested table suddenly appeared exactly where Harry had intended. What ensued was a basic information session on the room's capabilities, and why they felt that they were safe from Umbridge's interference, as long as they were careful. To say that the assembled students were impressed was an understatement.

However, Harry refused to tell anyone where the entrance to the room was for security reasons. For now, if the club could only enter through the passages they requested from the room, no one in the room could divulge—intentionally or accidentally—the location of the room.

Once the practical demonstration and explanation was complete, Harry began to speak of the club again. "Now, we've spoken of the room and the fact that Defense is well below required standards this year. However, the other—potentially more important—reason for this club is to teach us all how to protect ourselves against the Death Eaters."

The room was silent for a moment at Harry's pronouncement, and though Harry knew that no one in attendance was openly aligned with Voldemort, it did not take a genius to recognize that there was some skepticism over what had happened at the end of the previous year. However, the skeptics appeared as though they did not want to be the first one to comment about the alleged return of the dark wizard.

"Perhaps we should talk about what happened last year," said Harry, knowing it was best to get this subject out of the way first.

"I'm not sure you need to talk about that, Harry," said Hermione.

Harry shook his head. "It's a legitimate concern, Hermione. There's been so much said in the Prophet and by the Minister and others, and I understand that there is a lot of confusion over what happened the night of the third task."

At the general murmur of agreement, Harry whipped out his wand and said, "I, Harry Potter, hereby swear on my magic that everything I have said about the night of the third task and the return of Voldemort is true."

The flash of light sealing the oath mingled with the quick _Lumos_ he immediately cast, proving the veracity of his statement. Harry gazed out over the group, trying to catch each set of eyes with his own.

"I have told the truth. Cedric was killed by a Death Eater, after which Voldemort was returned to a body through the use of a dark ritual."

An almost collective flinch at the name of the dark wizard caused Harry to scowl. "Oh for heaven's sake—don't be afraid of his name!" he barked. "It's a made up name because the git didn't like the fact that his father was a Muggle. If you can't stomach the name Voldemort," again there were a few gasps and winces at the name, "then at least call him Tom, as that is his real name."

The silence in the room was almost comical, and mostly induced by the knowledge that Harry actually claimed to know Voldemort's true identity, not to mention his open disdain for the man.

"You know who he was?" a shocked Roger Davies finally managed.

Holding his wand in front of him, Harry wrote out the name "Tom Marvolo Riddle" in the air, much the same as the apparition of the dark lord had done more than two years previous. He then flicked his wand and the words reformed themselves to spell "I am Lord Voldemort."

"The wanker that everyone is afraid of is actually a Half-blood," said Harry, watching the reactions of the audience. Needless to say, most were completely riveted by the story of the most feared wizard of the century. "He was born of a Pureblood witch and a Muggle who was ensnared by a love potion. His father left when his mother stopped giving him love potions, and his mother died soon after giving birth to him, leaving him in an orphanage. He was bullied in that orphanage and responded by _becoming_ the bully. _That_ is who the entire wizarding world has been afraid of all these years."

"How do you know?" Cho Chang asked.

Shrugging, Harry replied, "Dumbledore told me. He was the Transfiguration Professor when Riddle attended school. He thought I should know who I was dealing with, since Riddle seems to be focusing on me."

Harry watched as the assembled club members digested the information he had just imparted, smiling grimly. It was about time that the legend of Lord Voldemort be destroyed and replaced with nothing more than the simple truth, and these students would be the vanguard in spreading that truth. Harry just hoped that he was present when Malfoy first heard of it—he did not doubt that the arrogant git would cry and scream over the "lies" being told about his master. It would be rather amusing to watch.

"So, are you trying to say that this… Riddle guy is a charlatan?" demanded Anthony Goldstein. "Seems to me you are dismissing him rather lightly."

"I am not saying that at all," denied Harry. "Voldemort was and is a powerful wizard—there is no denying that. I just want you to remember that he's a man, and nothing more. Being afraid to say his made-up name is just silly."

"I agree with Harry," Neville spoke up in what Harry thought was a more confident voice than he had ever heard from the young man before. He watched Neville carefully and noted that he was almost visibly working up his courage. "Not being able to say Voldemort," he spoke the word very credibly with only a hint of a tremor, "only adds to his mystique. We need to take that weapon away from him and make him more human, rather than the demon that most consider him to be."

A soft rumble of agreement passed through the group, and this time Harry knew that he had scored a significant point.

"Now, about the club," Harry continued when the talking began to die down. "We've told you that we're planning this to help us in our upcoming tests, as it's obvious that Umbridge's class is less than useless. The Ministry is purposely holding us back, because Fudge won't admit that Voldemort is back. If we don't do something about it, we run the risk of doing poorly on our Defense OWLs and NEWTs."

A glare from one of the Ravenclaws caught his attention, and Harry gestured for her to speak.

"You think the Ministry is intentionally keeping us from learning?" she demanded. "What rubbish are you speaking?"

A quick glance around the room showed a wide range of expressions, ranging from disbelief to skepticism to absolute disgust. But though Harry's thoughts mirrored the disgust he saw on the faces of most of the Gryffindors, he forced his feelings down and regarded the girl placidly. He was saved, however, from responding by the voice of his newly betrothed.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe I know you…?"

"Marietta Edgecombe," the girl said.

"Marietta," replied Fleur, her voice hard, "you cannot possibly think Minister Fudge has our best interests at heart. He has slandered Harry and Headmaster Dumbledore any way he can, and has not even taken the trouble to investigate Harry's claims. Does that sound like a benevolent protector to you?"

Marietta flushed, but the majority of the room was nodding along with Fleur's statements, so she simply shook her head.

"The fact of the matter is that Umbridge is not going to teach us anything, and I suspect that is by design and on orders from the Minister. Whether anyone else at the Ministry is in on this we don't know. What we do know is that we have to fend for ourselves if we are to learn anything this term."

That seemed to mollify Marietta. She acknowledged her agreement—albeit in somewhat of a grudging manner—and the meeting continued with Harry once again taking up the narrative.

"Okay then, we all know what's happening and what we want to accomplish. Let's talk specifics of what we are planning."

Harry then proceeded to relate what the group had done over the summer and the instruction they had received from Moody. He went on to say that they had several books which truly taught sixth year Defense, and that they would be pulling spells from those books, trying to pay specific attention to the spells they knew would be on their OWL and NEWT exams.

"Right," he said at last, once the explanations were complete. "Now, we all know we need to keep this from Umbridge. Hermione will explain how the membership in the club works."

Hermione reached to a table by her side and showed the group a piece of parchment. "Everyone who wants to be a member of the club will be required to sign this parchment. By signing, you will agree that you will not betray our secrets to Umbridge, or to anyone who is not a member of the club."

"And what if someone breaks that promise?" asked Michael Corner.

"Let's just say the results would be… unpleasant, not to mention quite long lasting."

Wide eyes and shifting feet met Hermione's declaration, and Harry could see that there were several students who seemed to be a little nervous about signing the parchment.

"Look everyone, there is really nothing to it. We want to learn, but we need to keep it from Umbridge so that she won't have any ammunition to use against us. If anyone has any problem with me or what I've said of Voldemort's return, you are more than welcome to leave."

Though there were still several apprehensive and concerned faces, no one took him up on his offer. He glanced back at Fleur and Hermione and nodded.

"All right then, let's do this."

* * *

_Updated 06/10/2013  
_


	20. Chapter 19 – Detention

**Chapter 19 – Detention**

The rest of October passed in a quiet manner. And though perhaps life at Hogwarts was never dull, nothing major happened until the month had almost turned to October. Hermione continued to watch Harry, noting the changes in her friend and the new sense of determination and application to not only his studies, but also simply the way he gave his all to everything with which he was involved. The old Harry had a tendency to slack off at times—the new Harry was much, much different. Hermione was pleased with the changes, knowing that much of what happened focused on him, and that much would also depend upon him. In this she was joined by Fleur, as it seemed the French witch had become almost as protective of Harry as was Hermione herself.

Harry continued his progress in all of his classes, improving in almost all facets of his education. His level of dedication to his studies had improved significantly, and he was showing an intelligence that Hermione had often glimpsed before, but had never truly been able to see clearly. His explanation, once he had been induced to share, had caught Hermione somewhat off guard.

"The Dursleys never cared," he said with a shrug when asked.

The confusion must have been evident on Hermione's face, because Harry sighed and elaborated on his statement. "The first time I received my grades in primary school, I took them home to my aunt, thinking that I might finally get some acceptance from them—I was proud because I had received very good marks. Other than Aunt Petunia sniffing and saying that I must have cheated to get them, they were completely ignored. Uncle Vernon only grunted and signed them so I could take them back to school. They never scheduled any interviews with the teachers, nor even responded when a meeting was requested."

"So you didn't try?" asked Hermione sympathetically. Though a part of her was horrified at the thought that anyone would not try in school—especially someone as obviously intelligent as Harry—another part of her understood that it was another byproduct of his unhappy upbringing.

"Didn't seem like there was any point," said Harry with a shrug. "I always understood the material, but I didn't make any effort to do any more—much the same as I have been since I came to Hogwarts. There was no motivation to be anything other than mediocre, so I didn't bother."

"Oh Harry," said Hermione, flinging her arms around him. "So the Delacours helped change that?"

Harry returned her embrace for a moment, before he drew back, appearing pensive. "Well, partially maybe. I also realized that my attitude was silly and that I was only hurting myself by coasting through school. Especially with Voldemort after me."

The conversation helped Hermione understand Harry better than she ever had in the past, and though she regretted his previous lack of effort, she was encouraged by how well he was doing now. His new studious manner was even helping some of his friends, particularly Neville and Ron, who had never been exactly scholarly themselves. There were even times when Ron—Mr. Slacker himself—was found to already be engrossed in an assignment when Hermione sat down to her nightly studying sessions. She supposed it was only fair—Ron had influenced Harry early in their time at Hogwarts, now Harry was returning the favor.

Potions particularly saw a change in not only Harry's attitude, but also his performance, though to be fair, that was also due in part to the improvement of Professor Snape's attitude toward him. It was still evident that the Professor did not like him—Hermione suspected Snape would hold a grudge toward Harry until his dying day—but at least he was for the most part controlled and professional in class. Anything at all was an improvement, and Hermione could only hope that it would last.

The first true training session of the Defense Club went well, with Harry largely going over most of the curriculum from their previous year, as well as mixing in some of the spells that they had learned in previous years. The reason for this was twofold—first to allow everyone to once again get into the mindset and practice of actually casting defense spells, and also to rate the power and knowledge of the members of the club.

The biggest problem that they experienced, however, was the problem of the disparate levels of competence and age existing in the club. Harry was a fifth year, as were many others in the club, while Fleur and her friends represented the higher levels of training as seventh years. However, there were also several students from younger years, including Ginny, Luna and Colin Creevey as fourth years, while Dennis Creevey was, of course, only a second year. It was tricky trying to design a course which would not only benefit everyone, but also refrain from overwhelming those who were at a disadvantage due to their younger age.

As a result, while they had planned to cover many spells which were taught in the higher years of Defense class, they also had planned to cover many spells which were not taught at all in Hogwarts. Some of these were spells which Moody had taught them, while others were gleaned from books recommended either by Moody or Sirius. And of course they planned to teach some dueling theory, in addition to the more underhanded fighting styles which Moody had run them through that summer.

Malfoy continued to be a bother, as was his wont, but whereas he had largely focused on Harry in the past—Harry's friends had always been caught in his taunting largely by association—ever since the howler incident he seemed to focus more of his vitriol on Hermione, whether Harry was present or not. Of course Hermione just ignored him, knowing the petty boy's opinions were absolutely worthless. In fact, she even smugly alluded to the number of times she or Harry had chased him away in shame, including—with no small amount of glee—the time she had punched him in third year. He was not to be deterred, however, and though Harry continued to hold in his temper, Hermione could tell that Malfoy's taunts, or more specifically those directed at either Fleur or Hermione were wearing on him.

Another situation which appeared to be grating on his nerves was the continual baiting to which he was subjected in Defense class. Umbridge was almost never overt—she appeared to have acquired a modicum of subtlety, or perhaps deviousness—but her snide comments and veiled innuendos were obvious to anyone who cared to hear, though she was careful to keep her comments to the times when she could not be observed by any of the other professors. Generally this meant that she confined her taunts to the classroom, or the corridors when she was certain they were alone.

Regardless of Umbridge's behavior, however, they had avoided approaching Dumbledore about the matter. Not only did they know that he was aware of the situation, but they had already exchanged thoughts and plans for how to deal with her. Dumbledore was actively seeking a way to remove her from her position, but they were well aware that he felt they needed something concrete and unassailable, or they invited Fudge's further interference in the school.

Through it all, Hermione was proud of Harry—he suffered all of her barbs in silence, ignoring her as much as possible and answering with bland comments when he could do nothing else. The woman started out by attacking his character, his insistence that Voldemort had returned, and when that failed to provoke a response, she moved on to comments about his betrothed and his closest friend.

However, in the last week of October she began to move toward more insidious comments about his parents and his godfather particularly, all delivered in her sickeningly sweet and falsely angelic voice. Harry continued to remain stoic in the face of her words, though Hermione, as one who possessed five years of intimate knowledge of his character and personality, could tell that the edge of his temper was fraying. The walk to Defense class two times a week had almost become a ritual of Harry psyching himself up for the inevitable barrage of the toad woman's snide commentary.

When Harry's temper finally snapped, Hermione understood that it had only been a matter of time, unfortunately. Harry _had_ improved his command of his temper significantly, but even the most even-tempered person could take only so much abuse. The final snapping of his patience had been spectacular, and would have been immensely satisfying, if it had not been so serious.

It happened as Defense class was nearing an end. Umbridge was expounding—somewhat ineffectually, as was her wont—on the merits and limitations of various shielding spells. (Privately, having heard Auror Moody speak on the same subject, Hermione knew that Umbridge was mistaken in a few of the things she explained, but she decided it was not worth mentioning. She would, however, talk with Harry and make certain to address the subject in the next meeting of the Defense Club.)

"Very well class, I believe you are now very well educated in the subject of shield charms," Umbridge concluded, speaking in the self-congratulatory manner which indicated that _she_ at least felt she was an effective teacher. "What about the Unforgivable Curses?"

Blank looks met her seeming non-sequitur. She huffed slightly, before explaining herself. "Can a shield charm block an Unforgivable?"

Silence met her question, as was common—no one really wanted to speak up in her class, not only not wishing to draw attention to themselves, but also because her class was so boring, minds tended to wander frequently. At length, Dean Thomas raised his hand.

"It is well known that no shield is capable of stopping an Unforgivable," he said, once she had indicated her permission to speak.

"Very good, Mr. Thomas," she praised. "That is correct—no one has ever been able to develop a shield which will stop an Unforgivable Curse. So what do you do if someone casts one of those curses at you?"

Remembering how much more effective Mad-Eye had been, Hermione put her hand into the air, speaking when Umbridge called on her. "The best defense against an Unforgivable is to not be there when it arrives," she said, mimicking Harry's answer from the summer.

"Are you suggesting that you dodge?"

"Yes," Hermione affirmed. "It is possible to levitate something in the path of the curse, and battle Transfiguration is always a possibility, but that takes a lot of skill and the timing can be very tricky."

To her side, Harry put up his hand, though the slightly mischievous expression on his face caused alarm bells to go off in Hermione's head.

When Umbridge motioned for Harry to speak, he did so in such a guileless and innocent tone, that Hermione, who knew him very well after all, almost broke out into a fit of giggles.

"But Professor Umbridge, didn't you tell us in our first class that we are safe? How can we be safe if people are casting Unforgivables at us?"

Though Umbridge was obviously vexed by his question, she could not find a way to attack him or refute his words which, though perhaps contained a slight air of insolence, were nothing but the absolute truth.

"I believe we are speaking hypothetically, Mr. Potter," was her prim reply.

"Well, in that case, speaking _hypothetically_," Harry emphasized the word, "given your other comments during our first class, I suspect that if someone casts an Unforgivable at us, then we should wait for the Aurors to show up and take care of the matter. Is that not correct?"

Umbridge's eyes were afire, such that they would be burning holes in Harry had she the power to do so. A quick glance at Harry told Hermione that he had not lost the poker face he had almost perfected for the class. Again, Hermione, who knew him better than anyone, could instantly tell that he was enjoying baiting the professor for once as payback for the many times where she had baited him.

Of course, that was where it all fell apart.

"If I recall correctly, Mr. Potter, you have a considerable amount of experience with the Unforgivable Curses."

"If you count getting hit by them experience, then I suppose that I am an expert," said Harry in a dry tone of voice.

"Yes, the Boy-Who-Lived and all of that."

"Indeed," Harry agreed. "I do have a complete set of them, but I really don't like to talk about it very much."

"Really, Mr. Potter." Now the woman was feigning ignorance. "I know about your Defense Professor from last year and his demonstration of the Imperius curse, but I was unaware that you have ever been the recipient of the Cruciatus."

Harry stared nonchalantly back at the woman. "As I have stated, my experiences with the Unforgivables are well documented, Professor. I would prefer not to discuss them any further."

"Of course," she soothed in her breathy voice. "But tell me, Mr. Potter—do you have as much experience _casting_ the Unforgivable Curses, as you have being hit by them?"

At once Harry's face became stony. "I am not certain what you are suggesting, Professor."

"_You are_ the only one who survived your little adventure last year, are you not? You _claim_ you were whisked away along with that… that… _other_ boy…"

"Cedric Diggory," Harry said in a tone which was very tight, and his voice was now less than friendly.  
"Yes of course!" Umbridge exclaimed, as though his words had jogged her memory. "The Diggory boy. Such a shame—my colleague Amos was devastated when his son was returned to him at the end of the tournament as a corpse. So sad."

"Cedric Diggory was a loyal and true companion, Professor," said Harry between clenched teeth. "I suggest you speak of him with a little more respect."

"Oh, I have all the respect in the world for the Diggorys, Mr. Potter, I assure you. It is strange though, don't you think? The two of you supposedly leave Hogwarts grounds, but only one of you return alive."

By now, Harry was only holding on to his temper by the barest of margins, and even Hermione's hand on his shoulder was only calming him so much. Hermione tried desperately to think of some way to change the conversation, to interrupted the confrontation which was speeding forward inexorably like a freight train, but the words were being spoken at a furious pace, and the rest of the room appeared almost spellbound by the exchange. Helplessly, Hermione watched as Harry once again gritted his teeth and responded to the Professor.

"Yes, it is unfortunate that Cedric was _murdered_ by a betrayer long thought to be dead—that much is not in question. Just what are you trying to insinuate, Professor?"

"Oh nothing, I assure you," said Umbridge. She appeared to be discussing no more than the latest fashions or the weather, given her continued simpering voice and angelic smile. "I merely feel that it is quite convenient that the only witness to young Cedric's death is a known liar. Tell me—was the _Prior Incantato_ ever cast upon your wand that night?"

"Are you suggesting—"

"Of course not, Mr. Potter," Umbridge interrupted. "I was merely curious as to what you did to… _defend_ yourself during your tribulations. It must be difficult indeed to know that you are cursed in such a manner."

"What do you mean?" was Harry's flat response. He was not mollified in the slightest that Umbridge had backpedalled on accusing him for Cedric's death.

"Why, that people around you seem to die frequently." She began ticking off her fingers. "There were your parents, of course, and then Professor Quirrel seemed to die quite mysteriously in your first year. And then of course last year it was Cedric Diggory. It appears that you have quite a body count to your name."

"You stupid cow!" Harry bit out, his voice as cold as ice. "My parents were _murdered_ by a foul madman, and you are not fit to even speak their names, let alone refer to them in _any manner!_ He _possessed_ Professor Quirrel in my first year, and died when he could not stand my mother's protection when he came in contact with me.

"And as for Cedric, he was murdered by the same traitor who betrayed my parents fourteen years ago, during a ceremony which restored his disembodied master to life. If you had even the barest measure of common sense—you and that idiot Minister of yours—you would have immediately put me under Veritaserum to verify my story, and then investigated the matter for yourselves, rather than hiding your heads in the sand like ostriches!"

Far from being offended by Harry's tirade, Umbridge merely smiled at him, never once indicating anything other than gleeful triumph.

"That will be a month's detention with me starting tomorrow after the Halloween feast, Mr. Potter. I knew that you could suppress your troublemaking ways for only so long, and I look forward to showing you the error of your ways."

"Good luck," Harry snarled in response, but Umbridge had already turned away, completely unconcerned.

She finally had him in detention.

* * *

It was a slightly chagrinned and subdued Harry who trudged through the hallways of Hogwarts with Hermione and Fleur at his side, on his way to the Headmaster's office. The fact that he had had a blowup with Umbridge that afternoon and that she had subsequently assigned him a month of detentions had already made its way through the school like wildfire. Malfoy was even more insufferable than ever, but Harry, for once, found that he could cheerfully ignore the ponce—the git did not have anything to say which was worth hearing.

His friends had been highly supportive, knowing what he had had to put up with in Defense class this year. Hermione and Fleur especially had been nothing but loyal and caring, but to a certain extent Harry could not help but feel that he had let them down.

The gargoyle appeared to have been expecting them, as it moved aside as soon as they approached. Soon they were sitting in the office with the Headmaster as his stern, yet amused eyes regarded them.

"Am I to understand you have had a confrontation with the Defense Professor, Harry?" Dumbledore asked without preamble.

Harry ducked his head, feeling sheepish once again at losing his temper. Another part of him, however, was still incensed at the vile words the woman had spewed at him. He had determined that no one was to be allowed to treat him or his friends in such a manner again, and the thought filled him with a new sense of determination.

Raising his gaze, he forced himself to meet the Headmaster's gaze without flinching. "Yes, I have, Professor. But I don't apologize for it. She had it coming."

Pursing his lips, Dumbledore's gaze appeared to lose focus slightly as though he was considering something. "I daresay she did, Harry," Dumbledore replied after a moment. "In fact, I do not doubt that she has deserved it since long before she arrived at this school. But regardless of whether or not she deserved it, we will now need to handle the situation as it is. I believe that Jean-Sebastian should be involved in this conversation."

He abruptly rose and approached the fireplace. Grabbing a handful of Floo powder, he called the Ambassador's Manor and spoke into the fire for a few moments. He then backed away from the fire, and a few moments later Fleur's father stepped through.

Fleur rose to embrace her father, which he returned affectionately, before Jean-Sebastian turned and greeted the rest of the occupants, shaking Harry's hand and slapping him on the back affectionately. Moments later they were all sitting and discussion of what had happened that afternoon in Defense class began in earnest.

Harry, mindful of his determination that Umbridge would not be allowed to get away with her machinations, held his head high as he recounted the events which had led to their impromptu conference. He desperately wished to lambaste the woman who was single-handedly ruining the school year for him, but he stuck to the facts, realizing that they, by themselves, were enough to completely damn the woman in the eyes of everyone in the room.

When his narrative had come to a close, Harry watched as Jean-Sebastian leaned back in his chair to consider the matter, while Dumbledore's unfocused gaze indicated his own introspection. Once again Harry felt a hint of guilt for succumbing to her taunting and thereby creating this situation. And yet another part of him again quashed it—he had kept his temper for almost two months, in the face of the vile woman's vitriol! She was absolutely reprehensible, and could not be allowed to get away with whatever she wanted.

"Well, Headmaster," said Jean-Sebastian after a moment of silence, "the ball appears to be in your court, as the Muggles would say. Given what has happened with this woman, I believe it is time to remove her from the school. I am only surprised that she has not been as cruel to Fleur as she has been to Harry."

Dumbledore stroked his beard, apparently deep in thought. "I agree with you, Jean-Sebastian. However, rather than confronting her, I believe a little subtlety may be warranted in this situation."

"What do you mean?" asked Jean-Sebastian.

"It is not in question whether I could physically remove Madam Umbridge from the school—as Headmaster and having control over it and the wards I could banish her easily if I so chose. But we all know what the result of that action would be."

"And how much control over the school does Fudge possess?"

"Not as much as he would like to believe," said Dumbledore with a smile. "He, of course, is the head of the Ministry, and as such over all its departments, including Education. The Department of Magical Education maintains responsibility for the school and that department head would hold the ultimate responsibility. I believe the reason that Cornelius has not yet attempted to have me removed from Hogwarts is due to the fact that I still employ a considerable amount of political power, but also because he and the department head share a mutual animosity. Jonus Berrens has been head of the Department of Magical Education for many years—long before Fudge came to power. He enjoys a high level of popularity and is good at his job, so Fudge has been unable to dismiss him."

"And you believe that the Minister may finally be able to move against this department head, and also you?"

"I am uncertain," said Dumbledore. "He may feel strong enough in his position to do so, or he may simply replace Umbridge with someone else. As I am certain the children already know, Madam Umbridge is not the most… competent individual."

Harry snorted at that statement. "I'm a fifth year, and I'm pretty positive that I could beat her easily in a duel."

"I do not doubt you could, Mr. Potter," replied Dumbledore. "In fact, her performance in the subject when she attended this school was so abysmal, that it is a wonder she left this institution with an OWL at all.

"However, I was more speaking of her general abilities, and not only those of her position. Simply put, I don't believe that she is the type to think things through, and though she might have a plan going forward, I believe much of what she does is based on spur-of-the-moment impulses and actions which are at best ill thought out. I would not wish to have the Minister remove her and insert someone far more competent or sinister.

"And as for the possibility of removing me—I could potentially fight it in the Wizengamot, and I believe that I would likely succeed. However, the condition of the Wizengamot is currently such that victory is by no means assured. Thus, I would prefer to have some airtight means to remove Umbridge from the school, which would then allow me to bring in someone of my own choice to fill the position."

Jean-Sebastian regarded the Headmaster with some speculation. "What is it that you propose, Headmaster?"

"Simply that we allow Harry to attend this detention with the Defense Professor."

Jean-Sebastian was silent for several moments as he shrewdly eyed the Headmaster. And though Harry himself was somewhat surprised at Dumbledore's words, he knew that the Headmaster would not make such a suggestion without having some other motive as well, especially not after he had already done away with a detention handed out by the woman previously. This was a serious shift in strategy, and for him to suggest such a thing meant that he had a plan in mind.

"Please continue—I must admit I am intrigued."

"We all know that Umbridge wants Harry in detention. But what we don't know is why."

Harry had to agree—they had attempted to foil her plans to have him in detention, but they never really knew why it was so important to her to have him misstep.

"This is an opportunity for us to find out why."

"And what of Umbridge? How far do you think she may go to prove her point, whatever it is?"

"That's just it, Ambassador," said Dumbledore, with a twinkle in his eye, "I do not believe Harry would be in any overt danger. However, I suspect that given her methods thus far—such as detention for speaking in class—she is likely to go further than she ought, which could potentially give us more ammunition to see her removed from the school."

Jean-Sebastian reflected on the matter for several moments before he spoke. "I believe I see your point, Headmaster. Still, I am uneasy about exposing Harry—we are talking about essentially using him as bait."

"With all due respect," Harry spoke up, "I've been in the firing line ever since I arrived at Hogwarts. I hardly think that a pudgy, pink toad is more dangerous than any of the other situations I've faced."

An amused smirk came over Jean-Sebastian's face. "I suppose you have at that, Harry." He turned his attention back to Dumbledore. "What is your plan?"

"We allow Harry to go to the detention with a monitoring charm on him," replied Dumbledore. "You and I will listen in while Harry is in his detention and step in if Umbridge goes too far. Then based on whatever she tries, we can plan our next steps accordingly."

Harry noticed that Jean-Sebastian's eyes never once left Dumbledore's face. He seemed to suspect something of which Dumbledore was not speaking, and Harry wondered what his guardian could possibly be thinking. His conjecture was confirmed by the next words out of the Ambassador's mouth.

"Let us not beat around the bush, Headmaster. What do you suspect?"

Dumbledore sighed before he responded. "I will not lie to you—any of you," he said, casting his glance around to each person in the room in turn. "I firmly believe, given her behavior and the Minister's… displeasure with how the trial proceeded, that Madam Umbridge will make every attempt to cow you, Harry. Whether she believes that you are also the key to ruining my reputation I am not certain. However, I do not believe that she will merely have you write lines tonight, or anything so benign; I am certain she has something more in mind.

"She may also feel that provoking you to a reaction—which you have finally given her today—is a necessary step in whatever plans she has for this school. Now that she has managed to place you in detention, I believe that we shall see her next move very quickly.

"Finally, I suspect that she anticipates my interference in your detention, and likely has some plan in mind to counter me if I intervene. If I do nothing, she will likely assume that you either did not approach me to appeal, or more likely, she will believe that we feel there is nothing which can be done about this detention. In either case, she will be overconfident, leading her to be less careful than she should. We can use this against her."

"And if she doesn't do anything to incriminate herself?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "Then at that point we consider the situation again and continue our attempts to remove her through other means. At the very least, if enough students come forward and complain about her class, that, together with her lack of the appropriate credentials which should be necessary to teach the class, may be enough to remove her."

"I believe this is your decision, Harry," said Jean-Sebastian at length. "You are the one who will be with the woman, so your opinion is the most important."

Harry felt a rush of gratitude—very rarely in his life had anyone ever asked his opinion. It made the changes of the previous summer seem all the more… real, to be treated more like an adult than an ignorant child.

In truth, however, there was little decision to be made. Harry did not fear the woman, after all—to him she was much more of an irritant and a drag on his ability to learn what he needed than someone to be feared. And if this was their opportunity to rid the school of her, then he was all for it.

"I think we should do it," he said out loud, noting the shared looks of slight trepidation, mixed with pride at his courage, from the two young ladies.

Dumbledore nodded. "Very well. I believe that we should place the monitoring charm on you ahead of time so we avoid her suspicion."

"Perhaps we shouldn't meet in your office then, Headmaster," said Hermione.

"An excellent suggestion, Miss Granger. We shall arrange to meet a few hours in advance of the evening meal, which should help throw any spies she has watching you off the trail. I shall set up the charm, and tie it to a dicta quill to obtain a record of every word you exchange with her."

The plan now determined, the group broke up soon after. Jean-Sebastian said his farewells in Dumbledore's office, not wishing to be seen at Hogwarts—the less information Umbridge possessed about their plans, the better. If she thought he had been contacted about the situation, she may be a trifle more circumspect the following day. And though Harry knew that he was the one she was targeting, he wanted the woman gone, and was willing to endure much to see it happen.

The three friends soon left the office and made their way down toward the Great Hall, speaking quietly amongst themselves. Hermione and Fleur had both expressed their intention of being near the Defense office the following evening to be available should they be needed, but also to show their support for him. Harry suspected their protectiveness was for nothing—he doubted the toad woman would try anything overt—but their care and concern was warmly accepted and appreciated by the young man.

* * *

They were soon to find out that Dumbledore had been completely correct about his assumption that Umbridge would soon make her next move. Upon reaching the entrance to the great hall, they found a number of students milling around the doors, looking at the Educational Decrees, which had grown in number since they had first been enacted. Among the students stood both Ron and Neville, both of whom motioned the trio to join them as soon as they noticed their approach.

"What's going on, Ron?" Harry asked as he walked up with Hermione and Fleur by his side.

Ron said nothing, instead pointing at a new case hanging prominently to the right of the entrance. Inside the case was a new educational decree which read as follows:

Educational Decree No. 23  
Delores Jane Umbridge has been appointed to the post of Hogwarts High Inquisitor.

The friends exchanged glances after reading the decree, but Harry shook his head at the group, motioning them to the Great Hall's entrance and the relative security the noise would provide.

In silence the group sat next to those their friends who were already there, including Luna—she had been eating most of her meals at the Gryffindor table. They served themselves from the heaping platters, as the conversation began in earnest.

"Harry, we heard you got detention today," said one of the twins.

"It was pretty spectacular," said Neville with a grin. "He didn't say anything I haven't wanted to say for the past two months."

"So did you talk to Dumbledore?" asked the second twin.

Harry glanced up at the head table, noting the smug grin on the insufferable Umbridge's face as she beamed down at him. Just managing to avoid rolling his eyes at the woman, Harry covered his response by raising his fork to his mouth.

"It's handled. That's all I'm going to say."

Most of the group nodded and accepted the answer with no comment. Harry was relieved that they had allowed the matter to drop—it was likely better that he kept the plan to himself, but regardless, the Great Hall, under the watchful eye of the toad woman, was no place to divulge it to his friends.

"What is a 'High Inquisitor'?" Fleur asked.

Hermione glanced at her worriedly. "I'm not sure, but if Umbridge was appointed to it, it can't be good for us."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group, and most of the conversation ceased as they all attended to their meals.

* * *

As it turned out, they were to find out exactly what a High Inquisitor was the following day. As it was a Tuesday, the fifth years started off with Charms in the morning, followed by Transfiguration. The students had largely settled into their seats in the Transfiguration classroom when Umbridge entered the room, her perpetual silly smile affixed to her face.

Professor McGonagall frowned at this unexpected intrusion into her classroom. "Professor Umbridge, as you can see I am teaching a class now. Whatever you are here concerning, it can wait until class is over."

"You mistake my presence, Deputy Headmistress," Umbridge responded in her girlish voice. "I am here merely to observe, so you may continue your class as you normally would."

McGonagall's expression became even more severe. "Observe? Whatever for?"

The toad woman's simpering smile became even wider. "Perhaps you have not read the most recent Educational decree, but I have been made the High Inquisitor over this school."

"I did read it." McGonagall's impatience was truly beginning to show. "What of it? I think most of the school does not even know what the position is, let alone what it means."

"Why Professor," the girly woman laughed, "do you not remember my words at the opening feast? The standards of this school have sadly dropped, and it is my job to once again make it the glorious institution it once was.

"I had _intended_ to simply observe and implement any suggestions slowly, but my observations, not to mention recent events," she smirked at Harry, "have dictated a more active approach. Everything must be inspected and either improved or rejected, and that includes anything from the curriculum to the professors."

If looks could kill, Harry was certain that by this time, Umbridge would be a pink puddle oozing over the floor. However, the Transfiguration Professor merely sniffed with some disdain before responding. "Very well, but if you must be in my class, you will sit quietly and not interrupt."

"I have no intention of interrupting, my dear Minerva," said Umbridge affably. "However, I would suggest you modify your tone and choice of words before your superior."

McGonagall's eyebrow rose at this statement, but she did not deign to respond to the woman's assertion. It appeared that Umbridge thought she had won the point, based on the smugness which returned to her features after the Professor turned away. For those who knew the Transfiguration Professor, however, it was obvious that she had simply dismissed Umbridge as not being worth her time and energy.

"I guess we know now what a High Inquisitor is," Hermione whispered to Harry.

Harry merely nodded, but the brief exchange did not escape Umbridge's notice.

"I see you have the same set of whisperers in your class as I have in mine," she said brightly.

Professor McGonagall turned and regarded Umbridge with an unreadable expression on her face, which was returned by the pink-clad woman. "I believe they should be punished—discipline is paramount, as you know."

Though McGonagall appeared as though she would prefer just about anything else, she turned to Harry and Hermione. "That will be two points each from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger. In the future, please be certain to raise your hand if you have something to say."

The renewed smug expression on Umbridge's face disappeared over the course of the class, as on several separate occasions, McGonagall found reasons to award both Harry and Hermione for correctly answered questions, and for being the first to correctly manage their transfigurations for the day. In all, by the time the class period had ended, their two point losses had been more than wiped away by the ten points each of them had earned, leaving Harry feeling somewhat self-satisfied at the failure of the woman's machinations. He could not resist a smile at her as she gathered her paraphernalia and breezed out of the classroom with her nose held high.

* * *

Late that afternoon, Harry met the Headmaster in an unused classroom after his last class to allow the placement of the monitoring charm. The Halloween feast was much as it was in previous years, with Harry feeling a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the wizarding celebration. This was, after all, the anniversary of his parents' deaths, and it was _not_ a day of celebration in his opinion. His friends were solicitous and kind, giving him their sympathies and support, but largely allowing him to eat his meal in silence. Unfortunately, it seemed to be a yearly tradition since returning to the Wizarding world—something _always_ happened on Halloween.

Umbridge's bright, cheery voice bid him enter as soon as he had arrived after the feast, and he stepped into the classroom, noting the gleeful expression of self-righteous smugness which adorned the Defense Professor's face. He longed to knock it from her in a rather permanent manner. Schooling himself to patience, he did nothing more than approach her desk and wait for her to speak.

She did not speak for several moments, seemingly content to watch him, perhaps hoping he would squirm at the scrutiny. Harry, however, was not in the mood to indulge her; he merely stood patiently and waited for her to break the silence.

"Do you know why you are here, Mr. Potter?" she asked at length.

_"Because you are an ignorant cow,"_ he though viciously.

"Presumably because I spoke out in class?" he said out loud.

"That is only a small measure of your transgressions, Mr. Potter. Yes you spoke out in class when you should have held your tongue, but though you have controlled yourself to a certain extent since I have arrived in this school, I have witnessed several times where you almost burst out in a most improper manner."

_"Due to your constant baiting."_ Regardless of his thoughts, Harry kept his countenance, knowing that losing his temper here would not help his case at all. The important thing was that the woman was a known quantity and her behavior had been atrocious—he would do everything in his power to ensure her timely and irrevocable departure from the castle.

She continued after a moment, her expression clearly showing the fact that she had expected Harry to respond and was disappointed when he did not. "Beyond your more obvious faults, there is the matter of your insistence in stating that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned. The Ministry cannot countenance your continued attempts to sow discord and fear in stating such an impossibility. You-Know-Who has been gone these past fourteen years, and shall not return. What do you say to that?"

"I've already said everything I am going to say," responded Harry. "You can refuse to believe me, and you can deny me the use of the magical tools available to verify the truth. But that doesn't change anything."

"Your arrogance apparently knows no bounds, Mr. Potter."

Harry smiled thinly at her. "A certain potions master of my acquaintance is constantly making that claim—I don't care about your opinion any more than I care about his."

"Perhaps Professor Snape sees more clearly than most."

"Or perhaps he's just a greasy git who holds a grudge against my father," retorted Harry.

Umbridge peered at him through narrowed eyes. "You seem to think that the world owes you something, Mr. Potter, and that you are somehow above the rules set down for us all. My aim is to show you that you are not as great and untouchable as you like to think. For the good of our people, your constant lies must be stopped."

"You cannot punish me for stating my beliefs," said Harry.

"I can punish you for anything I want," snapped Umbridge. "_I_ am the _Senior Undersecretary_ to the _Minister for Magic himself!_ I am also the _High Inquisitor_ for this school! Your precious Headmaster cannot stop me, nor can anyone else, as I have the full backing of the Ministry in this matter."

Harry did not deign to point out that not _everyone_ at the Ministry was as blind and stupid as she and Fudge had proven themselves to be. He felt that by this time he had antagonized her enough that if she was not already planning something which was beyond what she could get away with, perhaps he had provoked her into it. As such, he merely sneered in her direction.

"Well then, what punishment would have for me?"

A feral smile lit up her face. "You shall write lines, Mr. Potter."

"Lines?" asked Harry with a raised brow. "Is that all?"

"Oh, I don't think you will act so glibly when I am finished with you. You shall write 'I must not tell lies' for the rest of the evening while you are with me. Perhaps repeating it several hundred times will imprint it into your memory, as well as… other place…."

Throwing her a look reserved for the petty—or the stupid—Harry sat down at a nearby desk and began rummaging through his pack for the required tools.

"Close your bag, Mr. Potter—you will not need anything there."

"Do you intend me to write lines with my finger?" snarked Harry.

"That will be another two weeks detention added to your punishment, Mr. Potter. Any further outbursts will result in even more punishment being levied out. At this rate, you may be in detention with me every night until Easter."

"As if," Harry grumbled under his breath.

Umbridge, however, took no notice. "You will use one of my special quills for this detention.

"Should I retrieve some ink from my pack, Professor?"

A gleam entered her eye and her smile became even more unpleasant. "Oh, I think you will find that you do not need any ink. Just begin to write with that quill—There will be no more delays."

Her gleeful expression told Harry that there was something he did not understand—or perhaps did not know—which was at play here. The woman had just announced that he was to use a quill without ink, after all, and had he not known of her sadistic streak, he would have thought that she was barmy at the very least. There was something else going on here, but whatever it was he had no time to ponder it.

"Remember, 'I must not tell lies' will be your phrase for this evening."

"How about 'I must not tell the truth?'" asked Harry. "That's what this situation is, you know."

"Two more weeks detention!" Umbridge squealed. "I will break you of this pathological need to lie, Potter, if it's the last thing I do!"

Again, Harry forced himself not to point out that attempting to "break" a child was hardly proper behavior for any adult, especially one in a position of authority at a school. He doubted Umbridge knew anything of modern child protection laws or practices, nor would she care if she did know.

Shaking his head, Harry grasped the quill in his hand and began to write, noting with some surprise the words which appeared on the page in bright red ink. It was so unexpected that the sharp pain in his hand took him completely by surprise, and by the time he registered it, the pain had receded. He glanced at the back of his hand and rubbed it, wondering where it had come from. Seeing no mark there, he glanced up at Umbridge, noting the wide smirk of triumph etched upon her features.

Scowling, Harry turned his attention back to the paper, knowing that something was up. He took greater care in writing this time, watching the back of his hand for the source of the pain. Upon finishing the sentence, a perfect replica of his spidery script appeared on the back of his hand, accompanied by the sharp pain from earlier. It glowed red for a brief moment before once again fading, leaving his hand unblemished.

"What the hell is this?" Harry demanded, rising to his feet with the belligerence born of hate for this stupid woman and the unknown manner in which she was causing him pain.

"I told you, it is one of my special quills," Umbridge cooed. "Now, you may sit down and continue to write your lines."

"I will not!" Harry exclaimed. "I don't know what this is or what you are trying to pull here, but this isn't detention—it's torture. I won't allow you to get away with it!"

"You have no choice little boy!" cried Umbridge. "Another month's detention and a fifty point deduction from Gryffindor! Now sit back down and continue to write before I have you in detention for the rest of your time in Hogwarts!"

Scowling, Harry took his seat and picked up the offensive quill. He wrote the line a few more times, ignoring the pain in his hand as he did so. Each time he wrote, the lines appeared once again on the back of his hand, and by the time he had written the line a dozen more times, a faint pink outline had begun to form on the back of his hand. Gritting his teeth he continued to write, but he did not do so in silence.

"Why are you doing this? Surely the return of a Dark Lord is not a petty matter which can be swept under the rug."

"You are truly amazing Mr. Potter. You have written those lines at least twenty times now, and still you continue to spout these foolish untruths. You-Know-Who is dead and shall not be returning! You must learn this if you are to make anything of your life. Your moment of fame as passed, Mr. Potter—be happy with what you have had."

Harry shook his head. "Your blindness astounds me."

"As your pathetic obtuseness astounds _me_, Mr. Potter," said Umbridge with a sneer. Harry looked up at her, and he could see the light of fanaticism which lit up her eyes. "You are nothing but a jumped-up Half-blood with delusions of importance."

"_There_ is the bigotry I expect to see from an ignorant cow like you," Harry snapped. "And while you consider me to be a self-important attention seeker, I _know_ that you are a mediocre bitch with delusions of adequacy!"

Umbridge's nostrils flared and she appeared on the edge of a retort, when the door to the classroom opened and a voice rang out.

"Harry, you will stop writing immediately!"

Jean-Sebastian and Dumbledore had arrived.

* * *

_Updated 06/12/2013_


	21. Chapter 20 – The Downfall of Umbridge

**Chapter 20 – The Downfall of Delores Umbridge**

"Apolline, I am leaving now," Jean-Sebastian announced to his wife as he leaned down to kiss her cheek.

Though perhaps it would have been expected for his wife to return his gesture of affection with one of her own, Apolline's expression never altered from the severe displeasure which had graced it since the day before. "Jean-Sebastian, you remember to tell that Headmaster that I will not tolerate that… that… _cow_ to abuse any of our children any longer!"

Suppressing an amused chuckle, Jean-Sebastian leaned down and kissed her again. "Do not worry, my love. I believe that Dumbledore is right—Umbridge is stupid enough to hang herself. All we need to do is to allow her enough rope to do so."

Scowling, Apolline stood and put her hands on her hips. "I do not like this plan of Dumbledore's—Harry does not need to be used as bait after what his relatives put him through. At the first sign of trouble, you get him out from under that woman's thumb!"

"Yes dear," Jean-Sebastian dutifully repeated, before he bent down and kissed his youngest daughter who, though she did not perhaps understand exactly what was occurring, was at least aware that her idol was being threatened. Her expression of displeasure was almost the mirror image of her mother's, and Jean-Sebastian was forced to once again stifle a laugh at the sight.

Trying to spare himself another tongue-lashing, Jean-Sebastian quickly made his way from the sitting room, where his wife was checking the last of Gabrielle's schoolwork for the day, toward his study, and the Floo which would take him to Hogwarts.

To say that Apolline had been displeased the previous evening when he had returned to the manor with the story of what had happened with Harry was an understatement. And perhaps Umbridge and Fudge did not realize it, but in Apolline they had made an enemy of a witch who was as implacable in her resentments as she was strong-willed. Apolline would not stand for any foolishness, and having had to put up with the stigma of being labeled a "creature" or "Veela hussy" all her life, she was—unsurprisingly—remarkably intolerant of any kind of bigotry.

She had also come to be very protective of Harry in the brief time he had stayed with them before departing for Hogwarts—she was now as protective of him as she was of her own daughters. The fact that her temper had been simmering on a slow burn ever since reports of the hated woman's behavior had begun reaching them had not done anything to mitigate the explosion in the slightest.

Arriving at his study, Jean-Sebastian stepped in and, after taking a fortifying breath, stepped through the Floo and entered the Headmaster's office. The two men greeted each other and made small talk until the appointed time for Harry to arrive in Umbridge's classroom arrived. Dumbledore produced a small stone and waved his wand, and the two waited for several moments for Harry to arrive in the Defense classroom. All at once they heard a knocking through the stone, to which Umbridge called permission to enter. The conversation began between the two and Jean-Sebastian settled in to listen. The game was on.

The pride Jean-Sebastian felt at Harry's response to Umbridge's words, and the way he fearlessly provoked her, was the pride of a father for a son. Harry was truly an exceptional young man and Jean-Sebastian was happy to assume the role of surrogate father in his life.

"Lines?" Jean-Sebastian was puzzled at the woman's statement. Lines were truly an innocuous sort of punishment which was not overly threatening in the slightest.

"Wait, Jean-Sebastian—be patient," Dumbledore cautioned as the confrontation continued.

Jean-Sebastian glanced sidelong at the Headmaster, wondering if he knew something he was not sharing, but Dumbledore paid him no mind, focused as he was on the conversation coming through from the Defense classroom. When Harry made his comment about writing lines with his finger, Jean-Sebastian began to get a rather uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"Surely she cannot mean to…" He trailed off, listening in growing anger as he heard Harry yell at Umbridge. At that point it all became clear.

"Une plume de sang!" he snarled, glaring at Dumbledore. "A blood quill! Has she gone far enough for you now, Headmaster?"

A smile of self-satisfaction appeared on the Headmaster's face. "Indeed, I believe this will be enough to damn her completely, Ambassador. Shall we go and rescue your ward?"

Suspicion once again bloomed in Jean-Sebastian's mind, but he knew that now was not the time to have this conversation. He merely nodded his head shortly before following the Headmaster from his office.

A few short moments later they had arrived at the Defense classroom. Jean-Sebastian took the lead and without preamble, he wrenched the door to the classroom open, forcing it to crash against the wall as he strode toward Harry and the hated toad woman.

"Harry, you will stop writing immediately!" he spat as he glared at Umbridge.

Though startled, Umbridge regained her composure immediately. "Ambassador. Headmaster. What are you doing in my classroom?"

"Witnessing you as you make a very big mistake, Madam," Jean-Sebastian snarled.

"Whatever do you mean, Ambassador?" the woman simpered. "I am merely disciplining this miscreant for his actions and words in my classroom. I assure you, it has nothing to do with you, nor does it warrant your interference. You will both leave this room now, or you will lose your position, Headmaster, and you, Ambassador will be removed from your post."

Stalking up to Harry, Jean-Sebastian held out his hand, snapping the blood quill as soon as it was in his possession. Umbridge's nostrils flared and she jumped up from her desk, wand in hand.

"How _dare_ you Ambassador!" she screamed. "That was my own personal property that you just destroyed. I will see you arrested for this!"

"Harry," the Headmaster spoke up. "Please leave the room and return to your common room. As Headmaster of Hogwarts, I hereby declare that your point deduction this evening is reversed, and all your detentions with Madam Umbridge are cancelled."

"Yes, Headmaster," Harry said standing and gathering his bag. Jean-Sebastian was darkly amused to see that Harry favored Umbridge with a smirk before he sauntered from the room, whistling a jaunty tune.

Umbridge's smirk was absolutely feral. "You have just made your final mistake, you old dotard. I will be speaking with the Minister at first light, and I assure you that your tenure here at Hogwarts will end soon after."

"Oh, I believe that you are quite mistaken, Madam," said Dumbledore. His expression was implacable, and none of his habitual grandfatherly mien was detectable. Here stood the man who had defeated Grindelwald, and led the forces of the light against Voldemort. Jean-Sebastian had to admit to himself that the Headmaster was more than a little intimidating at the moment.

"Forcing a student to write lines with a blood quill, Madam? It is a little severe, even for you. Is it not?"

"I may discipline the students in any manner that I feel necessary, Headmaster. _I_ am the _High Inquisitor_ of Hogwarts, and you have no say in the matter."

"You stupid woman!" Jean-Sebastian growled. "I am not even a citizen of this country and I know that a blood quill is a class three restricted item. The mere _possession_ of one by anyone other than the goblins or a solicitor merits a fine, let alone forcing a student to write lines with one."

"I have permission from the Minister himself," Umbridge said, waving them off.

"The Minister is irrelevant," Dumbledore snapped. "The law is the law and no one is above it. I believe you do not realize the severity of the situation, Madam. You have not only brought such an item into a school, but you have also forced a student to write lines with it. Do you not realize that almost every member of the Wizengamot has some relative attending this school? What do you think their reactions will be when they hear that you may be using it on members of their families?"

Once again Umbridge treated their remarks as though they were of no concern. "I am sure that the right families with students who obey the rules know that their children would never be subjected to such harsh penalties. Only the true troublemakers who are attempting to ruin this institution merit such punishment, for it is the only way to correct their misbehavior."

"You are insane if you believe that the Wizengamot will do anything but condemn you for this, regardless of what students are being punished."

"Regardless, it does not matter," insisted Umbridge. "I may punish those who break the rules in whatever manner I deem fit. You have no authority to stop me."

Dumbledore stood tall and proud and he stepped forward, causing Umbridge to shrink back in sudden fear. "I have all the authority I require, as Hogwarts herself considers me to be the Headmaster of this school. And this does not even mention my mandate as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot." His voice was icy and low and the woman's features became even paler than they already were. "The use of a blood quill is not punishment or discipline—it is torture. I will not allow it to continue. You will hand over whatever remaining blood quills you have in your possession immediately!"

"I certainly will not—"

"_Yes you will!_" Dumbledore barked. "By the authority of the Wizengamot, I demand that you hand those vile instruments over _this instant!_ If you do not, I will take them from you, and by Merlin I will then see you to the gates of Azkaban myself. Do not try my patience further, Madam!"

Umbridge stumbled back once again, but this time she did not respond. She merely opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a box, handing it to Dumbledore with shaking hands. Dumbledore opened the box and peered inside. Jean-Sebastian looked into it himself, noting the fact that it contained well over two dozen of the quills. Dumbledore closed it once again, scowling at the woman.

"It appears that Harry was not your only target, was he?" he snapped.

Umbridge drew herself up as tall as she could with her diminutive frame. "The Minister will hear of this, Headmaster."

"I assure you that he will," Dumbledore said in response. "As will the Wizengamot, the Prophet, and anyone else that I can think of. I suggest you pack your bags, Madam, as your stay in this school will likely be of short duration."

The woman's sneer was back in all its glory. "_You_ have no authority to remove me, Headmaster. I am here by the appointment of the Minister himself."

"We shall see how long that lasts, Madam."

Jean-Sebastian glanced at the Headmaster with some surprise—he had intended to have the woman removed that evening, and could not understand why Dumbledore would delay. She was clearly a danger to all the students, especially to the ones with whom Jean-Sebastian was most concerned.

A quelling look met his unspoken query, however, and Jean-Sebastian let the matter go for the time being—obviously Dumbledore had something else up his sleeve, and Jean-Sebastian stepped back and allowed him to dictate events. It _was_ his school, after all. He _would_ have an accounting, though, Jean-Sebastian thought grimly.

"Your right to assign detentions is hereby revoked," Dumbledore continued, "Do not even try to do so, as I will know and I will throw you from the school myself should you attempt it."

Umbridge's eyes narrowed and her mouth opened, but Dumbledore did not allow her to speak. "And also be aware that any points you assign or deduct will be reviewed as long as you are still at this school. I would suggest you avoid using the points system at all."

"And I will be instructing Fleur, Harry, and all of their friends that they are not to attend your class in the future," Jean-Sebastian snarled. "You will never teach any child for whom I am responsible again—that I assure you. And if you so much as look at them in the wrong manner, I will have the Aurors here to drag you off to a prison cell where you belong."

"I would like to see you try, Ambassador," Umbridge shrilled in response.

"Leave it, Delores," Dumbledore stated. "You may not realize it, though how you could not is beyond me, but you have already lost. I will have you removed from this school as soon as may be, and you will not be returning."

Turning his back on her, Dumbledore stalked from the room while Jean-Sebastian, with one final glare, turned to follow him.

"Please explain to me why she is not on leaving this school at this very moment, Headmaster," Jean-Sebastian demanded as they walked back toward the Headmaster's office.

"Of course, Jean-Sebastian, but please let us talk in my office."

Though perhaps he would have preferred to demand an answer immediately, Jean-Sebastian inclined his head. He did not stop fuming as they walked through the hallways of Hogwarts; the protective instinct which he had always held toward his children—though perhaps not as visibly displayed as the one his wife possessed—was fully aroused, demanding to be appeased.

In the office, the Headmaster immediately sat behind his desk and steepled his fingertips and Jean-Sebastian felt as though he was once again in school about to be scolded for some prank or misdeed. Scowling, and annoyed that the venerable man made him feel this way, Jean-Sebastian tried again.

"Headmaster, would you like to explain why that woman is not on her way to a Ministry holding cell?"

"Because, Jean-Sebastian, our position is much stronger if she is removed by _Minister Fudge himself_. And you and I will fan the flames of what is certain to be a scandal for the Minister, ensuring that he has no choice but to do so."

Jean-Sebastian frowned at the Headmaster. "So this has become a political game?"

"It has been a political game ever since the Minister decided to involve himself in the workings of this school, Ambassador. I must have full rein again to hire a Defense Professor who is qualified and, more importantly, one who is not controlled by the Minister. To do that, my position must be as strong as possible—hence my desire to force the Minister to sack Umbridge himself. It also carries the added benefit of removing her from her post as Senior Undersecretary."

"You have a candidate in mind?" Jean-Sebastian asked, his curiosity aroused by Dumbledore's cryptic statements.

"I do," Dumbledore confirmed. "However, my choice will not be available until the new year. I will have to come up with other arrangements until then, and having Fudge completely preoccupied with damage control will give me the space I will need to do so."

It did, Jean-Sebastian had to admit, make a great deal of sense. The more primitive part of him, however, wanted blood that instant. Umbridge was a blight upon society no matter how competent or intelligent she was—or was not, as the case may be—and her instant removal from the government, as well as Hogwarts, was a very desirable outcome. But his children were protected in that they would not be attending any more of her classes, her blood quills were confiscated, and her teeth were essentially pulled. And if the woman was stupid enough to try anything in the halls of Hogwarts against his children, it would make the task of incarcerating her in Azkaban all that much easier.

"I suppose you are correct, Headmaster," he grudgingly admitted. "But if she tries anything with my children, I can promise you I will not be held accountable for my actions."

"Leave the protection of the children to me—I assure you that I will not allow anything to happen to them. I need you to play your part as Harry's guardian and as the Ambassador to England, not be involved with vengeful attacks against the Undersecretary."

Jean-Sebastian nodded tightly before he moved to the other topic which had bothered him as they were listening to Harry and Umbridge. "I was wondering about something else—you did not seem to be surprised that the Undersecretary possessed blood quills. Would you care to elaborate on that?"

Smiling, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "It is amazing what one can glean with a little passive Legilimency and an unguarded mind."

"You did know." Jean-Sebastian was implacable, and he was highly offended that Dumbledore had essentially used Harry as bait, regardless of the fact that Harry had insisted upon putting himself in the line of fire.

"Not that she had blood quills specifically," Dumbledore replied. "Her mind is remarkably open—she has no skill in Occlumency whatsoever. But even so, as you are well aware, passive Legilimency only gives an indication of surface thoughts, and active Legilimency is illegal, except under certain circumstances. I was able to discern that she wanted to make an example of Harry and try to cow him into holding his tongue about Voldemort. What exactly she meant to do I was not certain, but I did know it involved something I would not find acceptable. Unfortunately, the woman truly believes that she can get away with anything as long as she has the Minister's backing, so I could not be certain exactly how far she meant to go."

"And what about her presence at this school? She has been enacting decrees to curb the freedom of the students, from what I understand."

"All part of her plan to take over the school. You may not have heard, but the Minister made a decree yesterday making her the 'High Inquisitor' of Hogwarts, giving her all sorts of powers to review professors' performances, change curriculum, among other things. It was all part of their plan to eventually take over the school and force my removal."

"And now?" Jean-Sebastian asked, reflecting that if she had ever truly gotten control over the school, Harry and Fleur would have been pulled from the premises immediately.

"Now, I go back to the Wizengamot to inform them of her actions, while you go through your diplomatic channels to make an issue of her treatment of your ward. We shall also take the story to the Daily Prophet, the Quibbler, and every other public forum that we can manage. By the weekend the furor over this scandal will be so intense that Fudge will have no choice but to sack her."

"And perhaps take Fudge down in the process."

Dumbledore stroked his beard for a moment before he shook his head. "Although a desirable outcome, I suspect the Minister will be able to wriggle his way out of this. He is far too politically savvy to allow himself to be snared in this scandal. At the very least, however, it will tarnish his image and weaken his position."

Grimacing, Jean-Sebastian rose and shook the Headmaster's hand. "Unfortunately, I suspect you are correct." He stepped toward the Floo, before he stopped and looked back at Dumbledore. "I shall not wait until the morning to move on this."

"Excellent. She has finally given us a reason to remove her, Jean-Sebastian—let us make the most of it."

Nodding, Jean-Sebastian entered the Floo, not at all anticipating another tongue-lashing which he was certain he would receive from Apolline.

* * *

In the Gryffindor common room, Harry was enjoying the full attention of his housemates as he told the story of the detention he had just served and the manner in which the Headmaster arrived to put Umbridge in her place. The audience to which he was speaking would normally have made him somewhat annoyed or uneasy as he truly was not enamored of his fame. On this occasion, however, he was enjoying the attention immensely, not only for the opportunity it brought him to expose the fool woman for the idiot she was, but also because every student had had to suffer through her classes the same as he had, and deserved to savor her defeat. Revenge was sweet indeed.

Fleur, however, was not impressed with the news of the punishment the woman had tried to mete out. "That woman made you use une plume de sang?" she shrieked as Harry neared the point where he had begun to write with the quill.

At Harry's blank look, Fleur sighed with some exasperation and explained. "A _plume de sang_… A blood quill is a quill which magically writes using your blood instead of ink. The magic causes it to literally carve the written strokes into your hand—it can be quite painful if done many times in a row. Solicitors use them to sign legal documents, as do the goblins."

Showing her the pink outline on his hand, Harry remarked, "Like this?"

An outraged cry escaped Fleur's throat as she grasped his hand and inspected it. "How many times did she make you write these lines?" she all but growled.

"I must have written them about twenty times or so," Harry said after thinking a moment.

"That… that… stupid…" Incensed, Fleur broke into a long diatribe in French, and if Harry was to guess, it sounded like her language was not fit for polite society. After a few moments she had calmed down enough to revert back to English. "How dare she think she can get away with this!"

"It's all right, Fleur," soothed Harry. "I'm already away from her."

Fleur favored him with a glare, but Harry could tell that she was not angry with _him_. It was George who spoke up to explain.

"Harry, I don't think you completely understand Fleur's outrage."

"Prolonged use of a blood quill over a short period of time can result in weakness and fatigue," Fred continued. "It _is_ sapping your blood, after all."

Harry gazed back at them with some surprise. "They are that dangerous?"

"They can be," Fleur affirmed. "They tap a certain amount of your blood when you use them, and if you use it enough, the blood loss can affect you. Add to that the fact that if you wrote the same line often enough you would eventually cut it into your skin. Without a healer or Essence of Dittany handy, you would have a scar for the rest of your life."

"That I already knew," said Harry with a snort while rubbing his hand. "I could already see the beginnings of the outline forming when your father walked in."

"I guess he wasn't happy," said Fleur somewhat slyly.

"Ripped her a new one," said Harry with a certain measure of smugness.

Fleur, however, was confused. "Ripped her a new what?"

Muffled laughter and snorts were heard all around the room. Fleur glared at those who could not keep their countenances, while Harry hastened to explain.

"It means that he…"

"Berated her," Hermione supplied helpfully.

"What she said," Harry declared, pointing a thumb at Hermione.

"Good," said Fleur. "I think we'll be rid of the stupid woman in no time. Even your Minister will not be able to ignore this for long."

"I'd imagine that's what Dumbledore and your dad are talking about right now."

At that moment, the portrait hole opened and Professor McGonagall walked into the Gryffindor common room. She stood surveying the suddenly quiet room, until her eyes lit upon Harry. She shook her head, presumably at the obvious fact that he was sharing exactly what had happened with Umbridge that evening with everyone. She approached Harry and after greeting the members of her house, made her intentions known without preamble.

"I understand your detention with Professor Umbridge tonight resulted in some rather… unorthodox punishment."

Harry agreed and she continued. "When I heard, I thought I would come and survey the damage myself. May I?"

Wordlessly, Harry raised his hand to show the professor the marks left by Umbridge's quills, prompting a tsking sound from the Transfiguration Professor.

"The stupid woman," McGonagall grumbled. "I cannot imagine how she could possibly have thought that she'd have gotten away with this outrage."

"I think that rational thought isn't exactly her forte, Professor," said Harry dryly.

A brief smile met his declaration, before McGonagall was all business once again.

"Your guardian has declared that you shall not attend another of Umbridge's classes," she told them. "However, I believe we should make this incident a pointed reminder to _Madam_ Umbridge," no one missed her refusal to refer to the woman as a professor, "that the assault of one of our Gryffindors shall not be tolerated. I believe, therefore, that we should show our support by ensuring that none of you attend her classes."

The approbation was unanimous, as cheers and whistles echoed throughout Gryffindor tower. The house of the lion all seemed to understand that a good push may have the hated professor removed from the school, and considering that attending her classes was a colossal waste of time, missing them was no sacrifice.

"Very well then. We shall see the Madam's face tomorrow when no one from Gryffindor house's fourth year attends her class in the morning."

"I think we can come up with a special surprise for her too," said one of the twins with an evil smirk.

"A rousing send off will be just the thing for morale," agreed his partner in crime, his expression mirroring his twin's.

McGonagall regarded the two pranksters with some amusement, before her expression turned stern. "Officially, I cannot sanction such behavior. Unofficially, I never heard you discussing your plans. Don't get caught."

With that, she turned and exited the tower, leaving a common room full of surprised students. McGonagall had always projected the image of a straitlaced and strict taskmistress—she must truly despise Umbridge, a sentiment which was well understood by her house members. Soon the expressions of surprise turned to smirks. Life at Hogwarts was about to become very uncomfortable for one Delores Jane Umbridge.

* * *

Dumbledore and Jean-Sebastian were indeed as good as their word when it came to exposing Delores Umbridge's deeds at Hogwarts. Immediately after his meeting with the Ambassador concluded, Dumbledore Flooed the offices of the Daily Prophet and demanded to see the publishing editor of the paper. The man's displeasure from being pulled from an evening of relaxation at his home quickly gave way to astonishment and glee at the story which had fallen out of the sky into his lap. The fact that Umbridge herself was almost universally hated due to her strong-arm tactics and tendency to throw the Minister's name around in order to get her way only served to sweeten the revenge to be exacted.

Springing into action, the editor quickly had several staff reporters summoned with an eye toward breaking the initial story in the early edition of the next morning's paper. As was its wont, the headlines were sensational and provoked the desired reaction, proclaiming _"Hogwarts Professor Disciplines with Blood Quill!"_ and _"Boy-Who-Lived Forced to Write Lines in Own Blood!"_

The very next day there were several more Daily Prophet reporters were seen poking around Hogsmeade, and though there was no one at the village who had any knowledge of the incident, the residents were not unwilling to speak of other matters, such as the behavior of Harry and his friends during Hogsmeade weekends, not to mention the few times the Defense Professor herself had appeared in the village. Of particular note was the brief incident at the Three Broomsticks between Harry and Malfoy, provided without hesitation by Madam Rosmerta. Needless to say, the perception of Harry and his temperament was only improved, while Malfoy was portrayed to be a bigoted bully. And if, during the course of that day, Harry and his friends had coincidentally been found walking near the edge of Hogwarts grounds and had been induced to make a brief statement—ironically during the time that afternoon when he and his fifth-year friends should have been in Umbridge's Defense class—the matter was completely beyond the knowledge of his professors. As long as the reporters were not violating Hogwarts' grounds, Harry was a citizen as well as a student, and his ability to speak for himself was not in question.

Upon the article's first appearance in the wizarding paper the following morning, Dumbledore again went into action. Using his powers as Chief Warlock, he quickly called an emergency session of the Wizengamot, with the intent of discussing Umbridge's actions at Hogwarts. His estimation of the members' reactions was not far from the mark, as many Wizengamot members did indeed have younger family members attending Hogwarts, and Umbridge's hasty statement that she would never use a blood quill on members of the "right families" was received in a remarkably dim light by almost all who were not extreme bigots.

It was the work of mere moments to have the members of the wizarding body support and pass a motion condemning her actions. In particular, Madam Bones and Madam Longbottom, both of whom had young wards attending Hogwarts in Harry's year, and both possessed of strong, no-nonsense personalities, became Dumbledore's staunchest allies in his effort to push Umbridge from her positions. It was easy to pass a further motion, demanding Umbridge's immediate termination, not only as Hogwarts High Inquisitor and Professor, but also from her position as Undersecretary. They argued that if her judgment was this questionable in a school full of children, then she had no business whatsoever working in a position which allowed her to influence government policy. The box of blood quills sitting on Dumbledore's desk in the Wizengamot chambers was a visible reminder of just what depths the woman was willing to descend to achieve her goals.

At the school, the delivery of the morning paper sent the Great Hall into a chaotic riot of hushed conversations and astonished reaction. The reaction was largely in Harry's favor, as no student wished to have to put up with the woman's form of punishment. A certain blond ponce was not amused at seeing his name besmirched in print. Though he did, unsurprisingly, use the opportunity to heckle Harry, even then, his success was questionable at best, as Harry merely favored him with a smirk and an amused thumbs-up, before he ignored the ponce completely. Harry did oblige the masses and showed his hand—though the pink marks were now fading—to anyone who wished to see it. He considered some of the reactions over the top, especially those of many girls who had openly tittered about him over the years, now used the opportunity to fawn over him, even in the presence of his betrothed. Overall, however, Harry was generally pleased with the positive attention he was receiving for a change. It was certainly better than when he had been accused of being the heir of Slytherin, or a glory-seeking cheater who had used illicit means to be named a tournament champion.

As for Umbridge, she did not take this setback to her plans well at all. She showed up for breakfast the next morning completely unconcerned with the events of the previous evening. She had thought to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, after which she would Floo the Minister and tell him of Dumbledore's latest misstep, certain he would see to the return of her blood quills, and perhaps even use the Headmaster's actions as an excuse to remove him from the school.

The morning had not turned out as she had expected, however, as the arrival of the paper brought her pleasant mood to an ignoble end. The sight of those offensive headlines enraged her, and the reactions of the students—she was the recipient of the disapproving glares of almost the entire hall within minutes—pushed her to the brink of apoplexy.

She was the Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic! How dare they attack her in this matter! Could they not see that she was merely trying to control a troublemaker and put an end to his lies and fear-mongering? She would see to it that they paid a harsh penalty for daring to oppose her!

Unfortunately, it did not work out the way she had intended, as her arrival to the Minister's office was met by the man himself, and he was clearly in no mood to be understanding.

* * *

"You stupid witch!" Fudge roared. "How could you have been caught with such instruments in a school? And by Dumbledore himself? I am simply amazed that you were stupid enough to allow yourself to be caught red-handed using such an item on his favorite protégé."

The fact that she had used the blood quill did not bother the Minister in the slightest—in other circumstances, it would have been a very effective tool in cowing the little troublemaker and enforcing discipline. However, the situation with Potter and their utter defeat during the lad's trial had called for a much more delicate approach. Clearly he had been a fool to think that this woman was capable of acting with anything approaching subtlety.

"But Minister—"

Fudge, however, was in no mood to hear the woman's incessant whining and complaining. "I sent you to the school to enforce control and marginalize the Headmaster and the Boy-Who-Lived. Instead you have managed to bring the condemnation of our entire society down upon us, and you have strengthened the images of those we were trying to bring down. What were you thinking?"

By now Fudge could easily recognize Umbridge's clenched hands and the wild fury in her eyes. She had never taken well to being contradicted and this matter in which Potter and the Headmaster had clearly gotten the best of her was obviously straining her patience.

"You told me to use whatever means at my disposal to gain control of the situation, Minister," Umbridge shrilled.

"I did not tell you to torture a young boy who after everything else is considered a hero!" Fudge rejoined. "This situation required a soft touch and a deft hand, and yet instead, you used your typical dragon in an apothecary approach and mucked it up completely!

"You may not realize it, Madam, but Dumbledore has called an emergency session of the Wizengamot which is to start in ten minutes. I presume I do not need to inform you of the agenda for that meeting."

Umbridge's eyes widened comically, before an expression of disbelief settled over her features. "He wouldn't dare."

"Of course he would," snapped Fudge. "The man has been eating political rivals for breakfast since long before you were out of your nappies. You didn't really think he wouldn't jump all over this, did you?"

"In that case, it is well that I am here," Umbridge said with a sniff of disdain. "I shall defend myself against his charges in person."

"You shall do no such thing!" Fudge bellowed. "You have messed this situation up enough already."

"But Minister—"

"Enough! Given the mood in this building right now, I can't rule out the possibility of you _not_ leaving that room unscathed. You will return to Hogwarts immediately, you will teach your classes, and you will not say one word out of line to any student. In the meantime, I will attempt to mitigate the damage you have caused."

It appeared to Fudge that Umbridge meant to protest his decision. She glared at him with a harsh eye for several moments before she abruptly turned and entered the Floo, screeching her destination in her high-pitched voice, though none of the cultivated sweetness was evident.

Fudge settled in behind his desk and dropped his head into his hands. In truth, he did not see any way out of the predicament the woman had incited. It was apparent that the Wizengamot would demand Umbridge's immediate termination, and with the Prophet, the Hogwarts Board of Governors, and the outrage of society which he knew would be swift, it would take a miracle for him to be able to keep her at the school.

* * *

In truth, the Minister attended the Wizengamot session with little inclination to defend his Undersecretary. Fudge was, at heart, a political animal, albeit a corrupt one. He could see the writing on the wall, and it was the work of a moment to determine that there was relatively little he could do protect his employee. His calls for an investigation into the matter were ignored—Madam Bones emphasized the fact that the Chief Warlock himself had discovered the woman's actions red-handed—and his appeals for calm went unheeded. He left the session thoroughly beaten and plotting to ensure he kept his own position. The sacrifice of Umbridge was regrettable as she had been useful as an attack dog, but personally he would not regret the loss of the woman in the slightest.

Back at Hogwarts, the expected explosion of fury was provoked and exceeded when the fourth-year Gryffindors did not show up for their morning Defense class along with the Slytherins who did—grudgingly—attend. Perhaps it was not surprising when the woman stormed into the Transfiguration classroom moments after the period had begun.

"Professor McGonagall!" she squealed as she stormed into the room. "Why have your fourth years not shown up for class this morning?"

The look with which McGonagall pierced the Defense Professor was akin to one which would be directed at a particularly annoying insect. "Can you not guess?" she responded with distaste.

The answer clearly took Umbridge aback, and her mouth flapped uselessly for several moments. "I certainly cannot!" Umbridge yelled after a few moments. "It is time for class. You will have your house in my classroom in five minutes, or I will see them all expelled!"

"You really expect me to put my house members in danger again after your actions yesterday? Truly, Delores, I knew you could be a little blind, but I did not know you could descend to this level of idiocy."

The redness of Umbridge's face caused the students to worry that she was about to burst a blood vessel and keel over dead from rage. Not that her loss would have been mourned—on the contrary, a dead body in a classroom would have provided weeks of gossip, and the fact that it was Umbridge would likely have had the student body cheering rather than mourning.

"I will see you lose your position for this, Professor!" Umbridge hissed. "I am the High Inquisitor for this institution, and I will be respected!"

"Respect is earned, Delores, not demanded," was McGonagall's implacable response. "I believe your actions yesterday have made respect impossible and your position as High Inquisitor nonexistent. Now leave my classroom so that I may resume my instruction."

Umbridge stormed from the room and immediately complained to the Headmaster, who by this time had returned from the Wizengamot chambers. She was to receive no satisfaction from him either, however, as Dumbledore merely sat through her rant with an impassive expression on his face, not speaking until her fury had run its course.

"I believe, Delores," he said at length, "that your lack of Gryffindor students is your own doing. I suspect that many parents have already instructed their children to boycott your class, and can only assume that Gryffindor house is only declaring their united support for one of their own."

"I'll see them all expelled!"

Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair with a hard expression on his face. "If you believe for one moment that your petulant demands will be met with anything other than contempt, you are sadly mistaken, Madam. As I stated previously, the situation is your own doing, and I suggest that you dismiss any thoughts of using this ridiculous 'High Inquisitor' position you and the Minister have cooked up, to get your own way. I will not allow it.

"And furthermore, I believe Gryffindor has the right of it in this matter," he continued over her protestations. "I am hereby cancelling all Defense classes until your situation has been resolved. I will make a further announcement at lunch today—you do not have any more classes before then, do you?"

Umbridge was so shocked that she was unable to respond. Dumbledore would have felt pity for her were she not such a detestable woman.

"Go back to your office, Delores—I shall ensure that any students remaining in your classroom are dismissed."

In fact, the students were already gone from the Defense classroom by the time Umbridge had returned. In their place, the classroom had been turned into a swamp, containing insects, foliage, and brackish water, with one or two crocodiles to complete the image. Umbridge, in a state of utter fury, completely neglected to note that her classroom had been turned into a scene directly out of the Florida Everglades, and fell face first into the muck, having to be rescued by Professor Snape who had been in the area removing his students from her classroom. Luckily for Umbridge, the crocodiles—though they were completely real—had been charmed to remove their aggression, though she did have a nasty shock when she came face to snout with one.

"You really must take better care to keep your classroom clear of obstructions like this, Delores," Snape drawled as he pulled her from the swamp.

This was all the assistance he gave her, however, as he left her immediately after. Her robes were soiled and dripping on the floor of the corridor, while her hair was a muddy, plastered mess, sticking to her face as she gazed about in shock and confusion. In all, she resembled a mud wrestler more than a professor who had always been impeccably groomed. Regardless of the effort she expended she could not remove the swamp from her classroom, and after a number of increasingly desperate attempts, she marched imperiously to her quarters, though the squelching of the mud in her shoes ruined her image of superiority, drawing the snickers of everyone who was fortunate enough to witness her difficulty.

Matters did not improve for the Defense Professor at lunch, as moments after she had sat down to her meal, her immaculate pink robes, which had once again been restored to their dubious glory, disappeared and became an alternating black and white striped jumpsuit, which again resisted all of her attempts to dispel. And if that was not enough, her hair soon unraveled from its elaborate coif, changed to a dull gray, and fell down about her cheeks in limp, droopy clumps, while stubble appeared on her cheeks and chin. Soon the entire Great Hall was laughing of the picture she presented of a long-incarcerated cell block inmate. And if the Weasley twins laughed harder than the other students and shot each other thumbs up, no one took any notice.

Her fury now reaching unprecedented levels, Umbridge shuffled from the Great Hall—the final gift from the prank appearing to be a severe case of arthritis—and was not seen again in the halls of Hogwarts that day, or for several days after. Many assumed she wished to avoid a repeat of her humiliation, while the reality was that she simply could not dispel the pranks and was forced to wait until they wore off.

The next day calls for Umbridge's removal began to appear in the Daily Prophet and the Quibbler ran a special edition to cover the scandal erupting on the Minister and his Undersecretary. The Quibbler's edition was especially noteworthy, as it contained an interview with Harry Potter himself, as well as a full account of exactly what had occurred in the Defense Professor's office that Halloween evening. And though it was known to only the few friends, Luna had written the articles herself and sent the transcripts of their discussions along to her father, who was happy to increase the circulation of his somewhat odd magazine by printing the statement of the Boy-Who-Lived.

The Minster found himself caught in a deluge of outraged Floo calls and howlers, the worst of which came from Molly Weasley. He was certain that the woman's voice had been heard as far as the Orkneys, and her language was neither pleasant nor acceptable. The furor continued into the weekend as Fudge, though he was quite resigned to sacrificing Umbridge for his own greater good, delayed in sacking her in order to distance himself from her actions and subsequent fall. He employed every political trick he knew during those days, telling reporters he was "investigating" the woman's actions, piously calling for calm while his inquiries ran their course, and calling in several favors to keep the Wizengamot from calling for his own removal.

At length, however, he bowed to the inevitable, though in part it was Jean-Sebastian's final intervention which brought about an end to the situation. Jean-Sebastian had not been idle. Since leaving the Headmaster's office, he had made his sentiments known through his diplomatic channels—putting more pressure on Fudge through his own diatribes against Umbridge, while involving the highest level of the French magical government in the matter as well. He had even used some of his ICW contacts to ensure that Umbridge's actions were known on the international stage as well. Though no meeting of the ICW was called, and no official resolution passed, the combined statements of several European Ambassadors was invaluable in its influence.

Fudge had finally been goaded into action, however, when Jean-Sebastian showed up in his office.

* * *

Walking into the Minister's office on that Sunday afternoon, Jean-Sebastian immediately noted the tired, almost haggard appearance of the British Minister. The man appeared as though he had spent almost every waking moment in the office since the scandal with his Undersecretary had broken—and he very likely had, considering the amount of effort he had had to expend in fending off the avalanche of accusation and condemnation which had befallen him.

And still he had not removed the woman from her positions. Jean-Sebastian had spent almost as much time as Fudge in the political world, and the reasons for Fudge's actions had not escaped his attention. This could not be allowed to go any further, however.

"Minister," was Jean-Sebastian's perfunctory greeting as he stepped into the office.

A scowl adorned Fudge's face as he peered up at Jean-Sebastian. "Ambassador, I am quite busy. If you would schedule an appointment with my assistant, I am sure I can spare a few moments for you some time during the week."

"I assure you, Minister, I will not take up much of your… _valuable time_," Jean-Sebastian responded with a look of distaste. "I believe it is in your best interests to hear what I have to say."

Without an invitation, Jean-Sebastian sat across from the Minister, noting the sniff of disdain he received at his pronouncement. Considering the feeling was decidedly mutual, Jean-Sebastian ignored the petty man and came right to the point.

"Minister, I am concerned, not only over the actions of your Undersecretary, but also for the fact that it is now five days after she used a blood quill to try to bully my ward, and yet she is a teacher at an institution of education."

An exaggerated sigh preceded Fudge's response. "Ambassador, I understand your frustration and impatience. I will make the same reply to you which I have made to everyone else who has pressed me on this matter—the matter is being investigated, and I will take the appropriate steps once that investigation is complete."

Jean-Sebastian leaned forward in his chair and affixed the Minister with a stern and implacable stare. "Let us not obfuscate here, Minister. I am well aware of the reason for your delay. I _will not_ allow it to continue any further. If Madam Umbridge is not removed from her teaching position at Hogwarts this very evening, I will have no choice to pull both my wards from Hogwarts and transfer them to Beauxbatons immediately."

The Minster's consternation was instantly evident as he blanched. "But… but… why would you take Mr. Potter away now?" he sputtered. "He is very well taken care of at Hogwarts where he receives the best instruction available."

"Hogwarts is indeed a premier magical school," was Jean-Sebastian's sage response. "However, Beauxbatons can also claim to be its equal in many ways. I will be blunt—the fact that your Undersecretary has behaved in the manner in which she has, has me deeply troubled. In good conscience I cannot have my ward exposed to the potential of any continuation of the treatment he has been subjected to. The Headmistress of Beauxbatons has assured me that Harry may begin his studies in France as early as tomorrow, and that everything—including language tutors and English instruction—can be provided to him. It is a _very_ generous offer indeed, and one which I cannot turn down if Harry's potential safety is at stake."

Fudge's continued stammering would have been amusing under other circumstances, but in this instance, Jean-Sebastian had not time or patience for the man. He would have his assurances now, or Harry would move to a new school.

"Very well," Fudge managed at last. "I will attempt to hurry along the investigation and make a final determination of Madam Umbridge's status as soon as possible."

"Tonight, Minister," was Jean-Sebastian's steely reply. He stood and turned to leave, but paused at the door for one final warning. "I am in earnest. Do not test my resolve."

* * *

Knowing his hand had been forced and his tenure as Minister would almost certainly end should Harry leave the country, Fudge's response was almost instantaneous, as he sacked Umbridge from all her positions. He was able to maintain his own hold on the Minister's office by insisting that he had sent her to the school to improve its quality of education, making certain to note that he had never approved the use of a blood quill on _any student_, and that he had not even known she possessed them. The gist of his message was that Umbridge's actions were her own, without any reference to him, any consultation on his part, or with the knowledge and approval of any other member of the Ministry. He did accept the criticism that as her superior he should have kept tighter rein on her actions in a showing of contrived remorse for the harm that it caused at the school. And though it galled him to do so, he even offered a Ministry apology to Harry for Umbridge's treatment, and an assurance that the next Defense Professor would not behave in such a manner.

And thus it was that Delores Umbridge's time as Hogwarts' Defense Professor met its rather ignoble end. Her things were packed and she was escorted by two Aurors and the Headmaster personally to the entrance of the school, where the larger part of the student population had gathered to see her off—or at least they gathered to witness her removal, a circumstance which was widely anticipated. The stupid woman was not able to leave the school without a parting shot however, which came verbally the moment she espied Harry watching her with a rather smug expression plastered on his face.

"You think you've won, don't you, you disgusting little Half-blood!"

"I don't _think_ I've won," Harry drawled, "I _know_ I've won."

"Do not become too complacent, Mr. Potter," Umbridge snarled, though the hardness of her voice, combined with her high-pitched nasal whine was more comical than threatening. "I will have my revenge upon you, and all of your little friends."

"She sounds like the Wicked Witch of the West, doesn't she?" Hermione said. "'I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too!'" she cackled in a credible impression of the classic movie villain, causing the hall to erupt in laughter, especially from the Muggle-born and Half-blood students who recognized the reference.

"That is enough, Delores," Dumbledore spoke up from behind Umbridge. "Leave this school immediately and do not return."

Though Umbridge directed a glare of pure loathing at the Headmaster, she said nothing further as she walked out of the school to the laughter of the assembled crowd. As a parting shot, the Weasley twins had once again pranked her. Whereas from the front her pink robes looked as they ever did, when she turned her back, she appeared once again to be wearing the striped jumpsuit from earlier in the week. The laughter of the crowd did not endear them to her any further than they already were, but for once she held her tongue. Instead she stalked to the edge of the wards and apparated away.

The final note to the saga of Umbridge as Defense Professor was that she did not spend time in Azkaban as a result of the affiar. The penalty for the possession of a blood quill was indeed a fine, but the use of said instrument on a minor was not as clear cut. In the end she was able to bargain with Fudge for his support in pushing for a lenient sentence. As a result, she was able to avoid prison time in favor of an increased fine. In return, Fudge was able to gain her pledge that she would remain silent about some of the questionable activities he had engaged in during the course of his administration. And though Dumbledore would rather have seen her in prison, he unfortunately did not have the support in the Wizengamot for a conviction which included prison time, as the Wizengamot was still influenced by those who believed in blood purity. As Umbridge was a Pureblood, many members were reluctant to relegate her to Azkaban. So he wisely allowed the matter to drop, instead seeing to it that she was hit as hard financially as he could manage. In addition to the fine for the blood quills and their use, a further fine was levied for her comments and threats toward Harry as she was leaving the school. In the end, the fines and penalties were substantial.

Though she was a Pureblood, she was not from a wealthy family; the largest part of the gold she had been able to amass had come from her pay at the Ministry, and her skimming of some of the monies Fudge had received for his support of various bills, mostly from Lucius Malfoy. The fines took a rather large bite out of her vault, though some of her losses were returned by the Minister from his own vault, in a further attempt to buy her silence in the matter of his own activities. One might have believed that she would have revealed the Minister's misdemeanors for spite and revenge alone, but his guarantee that she would be spared Azkaban—coupled with his assurance that she would join him there if she ratted him out—was enough to sway her. No rational person wished to face any possibility of a date with a Dementor, after all.

A final conversation about the position of Defense Professor took place between Fudge and Dumbledore, but in that matter, Fudge found himself somewhat mollified, but again somewhat frustrated.

* * *

"I have come to inform you of the identity of your new Defense Professor, Headmaster," Fudge stated without preamble after he stepped from the Floo.

Dumbledore removed his glasses and massaged his temples wearily. It was beyond belief that the Minister still believed that he could control Hogwarts after the spectacular failure of his first choice. Then again, Fudge had always been somewhat blind when he was focused upon his own goals.

"Really, Cornelius, didn't Umbridge's failure teach you anything?"

"What Delores did was reprehensible, Dumbledore, but that is not the point. You require a new Defense Professor, and I have come to appoint one."

"I assure you that is not necessary," Dumbledore responded.

Shocked, Fudge glared at Dumbledore with suspicion evident in his manner. "What do you mean?"

"Only that I have a replacement for Defense already lined up, Minister."

The suspicion in the Minister's eyes increased. "Who?"

"I am afraid that I cannot divulge that information at this time, Minister. Not until I have completed negotiating a contract with the candidate."

"So it's not completed yet?" Fudge said, jumping on the admission as an opportunity to still have his own way.

"No, it is not," was Dumbledore's patient response. "In fact, my candidate will not be able to assume his position until the New Year. Until that time, I shall be taking over the position in the interim. I will only be required to cover the class until Christmas break anyway."

"I'm afraid that is not good enough, Headmaster," Fudge crowed. "I will have to appoint a replacement if your candidate cannot begin immediately."

Dumbledore slowly stood up and turned a menacing gaze on the Minister. "Really Minister, have you not suffered enough of a black eye already with this course of action? We both know that you have only held your position by the slimmest of margins—are you willing to risk being ushered from your office over this? If I take your insistence on interfering with this school _again_ to the Wizengamot, I may have enough votes to remove you."

"Is that a threat, Dumbledore?" Fudge snarled.

"It is merely an observation, Minister," Dumbledore responded. "I have a candidate lined up, and have a plan to cover the class until he is ready to assume his position. The needs of your ridiculous law have been met, and as such, you have no further reason to meddle in this school."

Fudge chewed his lip in indecision. Either that or he was looking for a way to turn the situation back to his advantage. Dumbledore knew he had the Minister, but he was not above throwing the man a bone to placate him.

"If it helps, Cornelius, I assure you that I have no intention whatsoever of pushing for your position. I am quite busy dealing with the positions I already hold. Is my word enough to persuade you to leave me to run the school, or do you need me to swear an oath?"

"Very well," the Minister said at length. "Let me know who your candidate is as soon as you can. I will leave you to it."

With a short bow, the Minister retreated back through the Floo, allowing Dumbledore to once again take his seat and begin to work through the paperwork that had built up the previous few days. Finally, perhaps, a little sanity could be returned to the school.

* * *

_Updated 06/12/2013_


	22. Chapter 21 – A New Professor

**Chapter 21 – A New Professor**

The Sunday evening after Madam Umbridge was escorted from Hogwarts' premises, Harry received a summons to the Headmaster's office. Unlike the previous times he had been to see Dumbledore that year, the invitation was for him alone, and did not include Fleur and Hermione.

When he queried them, they laughed at him and sent him on his way.

"What, are you afraid of facing the big, bad Headmaster on your own?" teased Hermione.

"I'm sure it's fine, Harry," added Fleur. "You can tell us what he wants when you get back."

It was therefore Harry alone who found himself seated in front of the Headmaster's desk, feeling somewhat uncomfortable at the way the man was looking at him. He had never really felt uncomfortable with Dumbledore before, but the look he was being given now seemed to suggest that Dumbledore knew all of his secrets. Or at least whatever secrets he fancied he possessed.

"I assume you are happy with the end result of Madam Umbridge's stay here, Harry?" the Headmaster began.

"It would have been better if she'd never showed up at all," Harry groused. "But at least she's gone now and the Minister won't meddle any more."

The Headmaster had already made the announcement that he would take over Defense for the rest of the year, and Harry found himself curious to see how Dumbledore would teach the subject. There was no disputing the man's expertise—his resume _did_ include the defeat of the previous dark lord, after all—but Harry knew that he had been the Transfiguration Professor when he had been a teacher. The experience in teaching one subject would undoubtedly be invaluable, but it was, in the end, a different subject. But he could hardly be any worse than most of the other Defense Professors that had held the position since Harry arrived at Hogwarts.

"Yes, indeed," Dumbledore agreed pleasantly. "It has been too long since I have been in a classroom and I look forward to teaching once again, even if it is only for a short time."

Harry murmured that he was looking forward to having Dumbledore as a teacher, before he fell silent, waiting for the Headmaster to get to the point of his summons.

"Now, Mr. Potter, I would appreciate it if you would tell me of this club which you and your friends have organized."

Flabbergasted, Harry stared at the Headmaster, wondering how the man had ever known of the club. They had taken every precaution not only to hide it from Umbridge, but from all the professors, and it seemed rather silly now to know Dumbledore had been on to them the whole time.

"How did you know about the club?" Harry asked. He then colored at the thought he had spoken so disrespectfully. "I'm sorry, Professor, I—"

"It is nothing, Harry," Dumbledore assured him with a smile. "But let's just say that though it is impossible for me to know _everything_ which goes on at this school, I at least try to keep abreast of major events. Though it is not well known what you are doing, I would class such an activity as a significant event. Can I assume that you began it as a means to combat your lack of instruction offered by Madam Umbridge's class?"

"Yes, sir," Harry responded. "Auror Moody told us that we needed to practice what he taught us, and we decided it would be a good time to teach others about it too."

"Very prudent, Harry," approved Dumbledore. "The question is, what do you intend to do with it now that Madam Umbridge has been removed from the Defense Professorship?"

That question had not really occurred to Harry yet, as he had simply been happy to be rid of the woman.

"I don't know, sir," he said. "I suppose now that we will get a proper professor, we don't really need the club any longer."

"You don't?" asked the Headmaster.

"You think we do, sir?"

"I should think that _your_ opinion on the matter would be much more important than _mine_. You and your friends saw a need and you moved to fill that need, which shows initiative and organization, but now that you will be receiving better instruction—hopefully, anyway—" Dumbledore stated with a self deprecating chuckle, "it does not necessarily follow that the club is no longer necessary."

"You think we should continue it?"

Dumbledore sighed and leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk as he directed an intent look at Harry. "You know that dark times are approaching, Harry," he stated. "In fact, with the return of Voldemort last June, one could truthfully say that dark times are already upon us.

"The truth of the matter is that the education you receive at Hogwarts is valuable, but will be insufficient to see you through what is to come. I agreed to have Alastor teach you because I felt it would benefit you and help you improve and become better able to defend yourself. I see this club as a continuation of that effort, Harry, and I cannot commend your foresight in organizing it enough."

"I wasn't exactly my doing, sir," Harry replied bashfully. "Hermione and Fleur had to talk me into it. I wasn't exactly keen on the idea at the beginning."

"And that is why they are such good friends and influences on you. It is said that behind every great man is a great woman—or I daresay even two—urging him on the path to greatness. Listen to their counsel. Their feelings for you, their desire to see you succeed is such that they will never lead you wrong, should you choose to allow them to inspire you."

"Yes sir," was Harry's automatic response.

"Good. Now, as for the composition of this club… I understand that it is primarily made up of upper years?"

"There are a few younger ones, but most are at least fourth year and higher."

"Excellent," said Dumbledore. "That is about the time when one is capable of learning to truly defend oneself, not to mention having the power available to do so. Please tell me who you have invited to join your club."

Harry obliged, telling the Headmaster of those they invited to join the club, the location they were using, as well as the methods they were using to get them to the meeting room undetected, though he supposed that was not truly necessary any longer.

"It sounds like you have everything under control," Dumbledore finally responded with some approval. "I have noticed that you have rather pointedly left out Slytherin house from your club."

"I'm not exactly friendly with anyone from Slytherin," Harry replied defensively. "Besides, I wouldn't want to teach Malfoy how to beat me."

"I suppose you wouldn't at that," said Dumbledore. "I do understand your reasoning in this matter, Harry, but I would caution you against painting the entire house with the same brush. Not all of Slytherin house is affiliated with the Death Eaters, nor is everyone in Gryffindor house noble and true. Peter Pettigrew proves that point, does he not?"

"He does, sir."

"Besides, even Mr. Malfoy may some day regret his behavior and change his ways. Second chances should always be available for those who are truly penitent."

Harry could hardly believe his ears—was Dumbledore truly suggesting that Draco Malfoy would ever be anything but a cold, bigoted, ferrety little git, whose lifelong ambition was the destruction of any he considered "inferior?" The man was wise, but Harry could not ever see such a thing happening.

"With all due respect, sir," he responded cautiously, "the only time Malfoy wants a second chance is when his hex misses you the first time."

With a sigh, Dumbledore removed his half-moon glassed and rubbed his temples. "Unfortunately, I fear you are correct. Mr. Malfoy seems to eagerly embrace his father's teachings, and shows no inclination to see reason.

"I am not suggesting you unilaterally forgive and accept Mr. Malfoy and those of his circle," Dumbledore said, putting his glasses back on and regarding Harry in a very serious manner. "I daresay he has made life uncomfortable for you and your friends since you have arrived at Hogwarts, and that the situation between you is such that there is little to be done to close the gap. All I suggest is that you keep an open mind about others and remember that sometimes things are not as they seem."

"I understand, sir."

"Very well then. I am now officially sanctioning your club, and giving you full rights to hold your meetings without all the secrecy which was necessary when Madam Umbridge was resident in this school. You will, of course, require a staff sponsor, whether or not they attend your meetings. Had you given any thought to whom you would ask to be your sponsor?"

"We hadn't really, sir," Harry responded slowly. "Our goal was to keep it from everyone on the staff so that if we were discovered they couldn't use it against you. But I have heard that Professor Flitwick was a well-known duelist."

"He was indeed. I will leave it to you to approach him. I only ask that you do so before your next meeting."

Harry agreed, and after a few more minutes of conversation with the Headmaster, he left to return to the common room.

* * *

The news that Dumbledore had been aware of their activities prompted initial shock, but soon a sense of reality settled over the trio. As Hermione pointed out, there were several ways in which he could have kept tabs on them, and he had a reason to do so with Umbridge wreaking havoc in the school. At the very least he could have assigned a house-elf to watch them, or merely questioned the portraits who, though they may not have been able to give him specifics, would have at least seen enough to allow him to make some educated guesses.

There was a sense of excitement in the school at the news that the Headmaster would be taking over Defense Professor duties. The fact that he had bested Grindelwald to end that dark lord's reign of terror was a matter of known, recent history, and it was well known that he was the only wizard whom Voldemort feared. However, none of the younger generation had ever had the opportunity to see the man in action, so there was understandably some curiosity about his exact abilities.

The one change which was necessitated by Dumbledore taking over Defense, however, was that due to time constraints and his duties as Headmaster—among other things—he was not able to teach the schedule as it currently existed. Therefore, each year was combined into one large class, and instead of the class meeting twice a week, one of the classes was extended, and the other cancelled. For the fifth year students, as their Defense class was scheduled for Monday and Wednesday afternoons, the new schedule dictated that their Monday class was extended by an hour, and their Wednesday class was cancelled. This made their Mondays even busier than before, as Defense would now abut directly onto the dinner hour, but it made their Wednesdays lighter by comparison, allowing them more time to prepare for the meeting of the Defense Club. And though these changes meant that they would now be required to share defense class with all the fifth years—including Malfoy and the other Slytherins—overall Harry and his Gryffindor year-mates were happy with the changes, and eager to receive instruction from such a famed wizard.

The day after Umbridge's departure, all of the fifth years of Hogwarts filed into their new classroom. As the official Defense classroom was not large enough to hold their numbers, they had been directed to another room which was closer to the Great Hall. The new room had the advantage of being much larger than the old room, and once the house-elves had transferred desks, blackboards, and other paraphernalia from the Defense classroom, it appeared as welcoming as the traditional defense classroom, only larger.

They had just situated themselves in their seats, when Malfoy and his cronies sauntered into the classroom and took seats behind and a little to the side of Harry and his friends.

"Hey Scarface, I bet you're crying in relief that the big bad Defense Professor is gone," he snarked. "The Creature's daddy had to come and chase her away from you, didn't he?"

"I guess I'm starting to take some lessons from you, Ferret," Harry retorted. "You taught me through your excellent example of hiding behind Daddy's robes every time the going gets rough."

"Now let's have enough of that and be civil, shall we not?" interrupted Dumbledore as he strode into the room. He stopped and peered at the two antagonists, Harry abashed, Malfoy defiant. "I understand there is no love lost between you two, but in class you may suspend your rivalry and act like young men should be expected to act. That will be three points from you, Mr. Malfoy, for provoking a confrontation, and an additional five points for your insult to Miss Delacour. Mr. Potter, that will also be three points from you for your own insults."

Draco sputtered in indignation. "Why does _he_ only get three points?"

"I believe I already told you why, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore stated pointedly. "Had Mr. Potter fired the first shot, his would have been the greater penalty."

Malfoy appeared as though he wanted to protest further, but he was again interrupted by the Headmaster. "Do you wish to earn further point deductions, Mr. Malfoy?"

Malfoy's mouth snapped shut and he stared sulkily back at the Headmaster. Satisfied, Dumbledore turned away and made his way toward the front of the class. Harry, smirking at his nemesis mouthed, "When my father hears," at Malfoy, gleefully noting the redness of the boy's rage. He then pointedly ignored the ponce, attending the Headmaster who had turned to face the class.

"Welcome to Defense class," said Dumbledore, sweeping the class with his gaze. "I am happy to be with you all today. It has been many years since I taught, and I must admit that I have been looking forward to it immensely."

He began to pace in front of them, his brows furrowed in thought. "I understand that your Defense experience this year has been somewhat… lacking, especially in the realm of practical application. We have already lost two months of study, and my schedule will not allow for me to take all the classes as they were originally scheduled. You will therefore be working at a much quicker pace, and much of the practice of the things you learn will need to be on your own time. I believe, however, that you are all capable of learning what you will need to know."

Stopping, Dumbledore once again ran his gaze over the class. "Before we begin, however, I believe we should be clear on exactly what we are learning. Can anyone tell me what exactly constitutes the dark arts?"

The Headmaster motioned to Hermione with a kindly smile when he saw her hand in the air.

"The dark arts refers to any magic which is mainly used to cause harm," Hermione stated in a clear voice.

"An excellent textbook description, Miss Granger—take two points for Gryffindor." He faced the class and raised an eyebrow. "Does anyone have any issue with Miss Granger's definition?"

"What about will and intent, Professor?" asked Susan Bones. "Cannot any spell which is intended to cause harm be considered to be a dark spell?"

"Interesting question, Miss Bones," Dumbledore said with a smile of approval. "Let us discuss it, shall we? Can anyone name a spell which can be used for harm?"

"The cutting curse," said Terry Boot.

"Excellent, Mr. Boot. Now, in what way can the cutting curse be used for harm?"

"Well, you could behead your enemy in a duel with it."

Dumbledore chuckled. "In some more extreme cases, yes you could, though it would take a highly powerful cutting curse to do that much damage. What else can you do with a cutting curse? Does hit have any good uses?"

"You can use it to cut off the stalk of a plant, or to slice an orange in half," said Padma Patil.

"Very good, Miss Patil." He looked around the class before continuing. "We have a single spell which can be used for both good and ill intents. Therefore, in this case it is clearly shown that though the spell can perhaps be used to harm, it was not necessarily intended to be a dark spell. The will and intent of the caster is specifically needed to determine whether the spell is used in a dark manner."

The class digested this as Dumbledore paused for a moment. Harry, his Defense Professors having largely been ineffective or incompetent his entire time at Hogwarts, was enjoying the philosophical discussion immensely. Even in Remus's class they had done a lot of practical work, and learned about dark creatures, but a discussion about the nature of dark magic had never been part of the curriculum.

"Are all spells like this one? Does the intent of the caster always determine whether the spell is used in a dark manner, or are there spells, potions, wards, acts, etc, which are harmful by nature."

"There are spells that by their nature are purely dark," Harry said, once Dumbledore indicated that he should speak. "The Unforgivables, by their very nature, are dark spells and have no light applications."

"Spoken like a true coward," Draco scoffed from behind.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrow and regarded the Malfoy scion. "You have a different opinion, Mr. Malfoy?"

Puffing himself up in his self importance, Draco stated pompously, "My father told me that there is no light or dark. There is merely power and those with the right and ability to exercise that power."

"And who decides who has that right, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Those with the right know it," Malfoy responded with a shrug. "There are those who are superior by their very existence as heirs of many generations of magical ability. Those who are so chosen have no need to justify their actions, for they work for the betterment of the Wizarding world in the prevention of its tainting by those of a lesser station."

Shaking his head, Dumbledore regarded Draco severely. For Harry, though he had always known of what Malfoy believed, he had never heard the blond state his beliefs with such clarity and in such a public forum. This was a dangerous person—just as his father and his father's master were dangerous. Regardless of Dumbledore's desire—and it was a noble desire—to redeem people such as Malfoy, Harry knew there was little chance he would ever change. His father's teachings were far too ingrained in him for there to ever be room for any kind of competing viewpoint.

"I am unsurprised your father has taught such things, given what I have seen of his behavior," responded Dumbledore, a slight hint of sadness entering his voice. "But regardless of what you have been told, there _is_ a distinct delineation between the dark arts and other magic—not all magic can have a benevolent application.

"For example, let us speak of the killing curse. For most of those in this room, casting a killing curse at me would do next to nothing. Can anyone tell me why?"

At his signal, Ron spoke up. "The killing curse takes a lot of power to cast properly."

"Very good, Mr. Weasley. Your answer is correct, but only part of the answer. Can anyone tell me what else is necessary to properly cast the killing curse?"

"The killing curse is also powered by hate, Professor," Harry stated when Dumbledore motioned to him.

"Exactly, Mr. Potter—take two more points for Gryffindor." Dumbledore fell silent and surveyed the class once again. "Yes, the killing curse requires a significant level of power to cast, but it is also fueled by the caster's hate. You could state the incantation and summon the necessary power, but if you have not summoned the hatred necessary to truly cast the spell, it would have little effect. Given that, is there any practical application for the curse? For example, could you perform a mercy killing for a terminally ill patient?"

"Not unless you hated that person," said Daphne Greengrass.

"Exactly," stated Dumbledore. "Beyond the ethical concerns of performing a mercy killing, the killing curse is not useful in such circumstances, as you would have to power the curse with hate."

"But Professor," Harry said, "I know that the killing curse requires hatred, but not everyone is killed by someone who hates them. Death Eaters don't necessarily even know everyone they kill."

"Very interesting point, Mr. Potter," approved Dumbledore. "Can anyone shed any light on this seeming contradiction?"

The class was silent for several moments as the students ruminated on the question. Harry felt he likely knew the answer to the riddle, but decided he would let someone else speak.

It was several moments before Padma Patil raised her hand somewhat tentatively, speaking when Dumbledore motioned to her. "I think that the hate does not need to be specifically directed at someone to be effective. Death Eaters, for example, hate those with what they consider to be lesser bloodlines in general. Thus, when they cast that specific spell, their hatred is more general in nature than specific."

"Very good, Miss Patil. Take two points for Ravenclaw."

Dumbledore surveyed the room for several moments before he began speaking again. "Miss Patil has indeed hit upon the crux of the issue. The hatred need not be directed at _a person_ for the curse to be effective, though it may very well be. Hatred is something which the human race in general seems to possess in abundance, and that hatred may be harnessed in order to allow a person to kill another. You will do well to remember that a killing curse may potentially come from an unexpected quarter—the caster does not have to hate _you _in order to kill you with it.

"In the example we were discussing, though your hate may allow you to cast the spell, a healer does not work in that fashion. The healer would more likely feel compassion than hatred. Though perhaps it is technically possible for a healer to use the curse to euthanize a patient, his oaths as a healer would prevent him from actually doing so.

"Thus, there is no practical application for using the curse, other than to kill an enemy whom you hate. I trust that for most of us in this room, evoking the necessary level of hatred would be impossible.

"There is indeed a branch of magic called the dark arts, and regardless of what you have been told," here Dumbledore did glance at a visibly dismissive Malfoy, "there are no good applications for this magic. Dark arts include the three Unforgivables, a few other curses, certain potions which are meant only to harm, and different rituals and other magics which are specifically intended to cause harm, or which cause harm in the process of completing them. Make no mistake about it—if you perform a ritual which benefits you, but which harms someone else, the magic is dark in nature."

He stopped for a moment and watched the class, clearly allowing them to digest the information he had just imparted to them. Harry glanced around as surreptitiously as he could and though Malfoy was nonchalant and unconcerned, most of the rest the class looked thoughtful. Even some of the Slytherins—who he would have expected to be as dark as Malfoy—appeared to be as thoughtful as the rest of the class. The information caused a whole new tangent in Harry's thoughts—he had never truly had a lot of congress with the Slytherins, and he had as a result painted them largely with the same brush as Malfoy. There almost certainly was something to what the Headmaster had told him the previous day.

"Now, some of you may be wondering why I'm telling you this," Dumbledore continued. "There are several reasons. The first is because we have not been able to keep a Defense Professor for more than a year at a time; I'm not certain exactly what your professors have taught you.

"The second reason is that despite what our Minister is saying, our Mr. Potter did indeed witness the rebirth of the Dark Lord last year."

Harry blushed at the sudden scrutiny under which he found himself, as a rumble of noise broke out over the classroom. Surely everyone knew the story by now, but he had never truly told the tales of his adventures in such a public forum.

"Therefore, I want everyone to be aware of the seriousness of the situation," Dumbledore's voice once again cut through the discussion. "Everyone here knows that Voldemort's Death Eaters have a propensity toward heavy usage of the dark arts."

The winces at the wizard's name caused Dumbledore to pause for a moment, before he continued in a slightly admonishing tone. "The fear to use a contrived name merely grants Voldemort a power to which he has no claim. It is only a name—not even the one with which he was born—and none of us should fear to say it.

"Now, to continue, I wish for everyone at this school to understand what we are dealing with when we oppose the dark arts. What you should all take from this discussion is that the dark arts can and will be used against you, if a Death Eater ever gets the opportunity. You must know the dark arts to be able to defend yourself and your loved ones, whether you are able to strike back or not. The ability to defend until you are able to flee may keep you alive one day. Now, I believe we should begin as we have much to cover."

It was readily apparent that the Headmaster was not only a powerful wizard, but he also possessed a deep understanding of the dark arts, and extensive knowledge on how to combat them. Furthermore, he proved himself a gifted teacher as he patiently taught the students, showing a knack for demonstration, explanation, and coaxing the best out of every student in the room. Harry was amazed—if this man had been the Defense teacher throughout his time at the school, he was not certain how _anyone_ could have avoided becoming gifted in the subject.

All in all, it was an enjoyable time, and far more illuminating than Harry had ever experienced before in Defense class. The only problem was that it was not destined to last—as Headmaster, he could hardly be expected to have the time to continue to teach the class indefinitely. Besides, he had already announced that the new Defense Professor would be arriving after winter holidays. Until then, they would just have to make the most of the opportunity to learn from one of the great leaders of their time.

The class continued apace, and before Harry knew it, they were nearing the end of the allotted time. For the last half of the class, Dumbledore had been pairing the members of the class off for some practice in dueling, and had even had several pairs face off in practice duels in front of the class where he could observe them directly. He pointed out to the class the things that each duelist had done wrong, and which had been done right, attempting to get them to learn through practical experience.

He scanned the room, and his eyes rested on Harry and Hermione, and he smiled at the two of them. "Miss Granger, I have been watching you and Mr. Potter for some time now. Perhaps you could both come up here and demonstrate your abilities for the rest of the class?"

Harry exchanged a look with Hermione. He was not reluctant to do as the Headmaster had asked, except for the idea of being on display yet again. However, Fleur's words that he should strive to be exceptional filtered back to his mind at that moment and he decided that showing and example to everyone else was a good place to start.

"A Mudblood and a teacher's pet," a scoffing voice said softly behind him.

Harry was not about to deign to respond to the ferret—his opinion meant nothing after all—but the words had been spoken too loudly. It was clear that the Headmaster had heard him speak.

"Would you like to speak up, Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore said, staring at the blond.

Malfoy colored slightly, but whether or not one was correct in attacking his credibility and capabilities, a lack of audacity was apparently not one of his traits.

"I said that you favor them," Malfoy responded. "It's obvious the way you fawn over Potter, and Granger is not much better. It's really quite sickening—neither is anything special."

"I was not aware that I had treated anyone in this class different than anyone else," responded Dumbledore with more than a hint of steel in his voice. "In fact, I distinctly remember Mr. Potter and Miss Granger instinctively grasping today's lesson with little help from me—I have only exchanged a few words with them the entire class."

His face turning slightly red, Malfoy's expression became tight, and he refused to respond to the Headmaster.

"Surely you must have some other reason for your words, Mr. Malfoy. Shall you not share them? Or perhaps you would prefer to be paired up with Mr. Potter or Miss Granger for our last practice duel of the day."

Malfoy sneered. "_I_ was taught by my father. I have no doubt that _I_ would be able to beat either of them with little trouble. There is no way that either of them could match up with me."

"In that case, you will be given a chance to back up your words," Dumbledore stated. He regarded Harry and Hermione for a moment, and Harry was hoping that Dumbledore would pick him—he would love a chance to take the prick down a peg or two. And best of all—he would not get into trouble for it!

At length, however, Dumbledore smiled at Hermione, and motioned her forward. "Miss Granger, I believe you would be perfect for this little demonstration, if you will oblige the class."

"The Mudblood?" Malfoy scoffed. "At least Potter might stand a chance—with _her_ it will be over before it is even begun."

"That will be five points for the use of that disgusting word, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said harshly. "Do not repeat it again, as the next time I hear it from your mouth will cost you a week's detention."

Malfoy glared at the Headmaster, but somewhat out of character, he chose to remain silent. Instead, he grasped his wand tightly in his right hand and strode in to the middle of the classroom, turning his baleful glare on Hermione.

Of course, Hermione was hardly fazed by his display of bravado—she had faced him down many times before. It was well known—to all but Malfoy and his cronies—that the boy was ten parts bluster to one part competence. Regardless of Malfoy's misplaced confidence, Harry did not expect this practice duel to last more than a few moments, and had no doubt that Hermione would defeat him.

The two combatants faced off against one another with Dumbledore taking his position as referee between them. "Remember, no questionable curses," he said as he looked pointedly at Malfoy. "Your goal is to disable so your opponent is no longer able to continue."

He looked across at each combatant, confirming their acceptance of the rules, before he stepped back and cast a large shield charm which surrounded Hermione and Malfoy, and protected the rest of the students observing the match. After a moment, sparks issued from his wand, signaling the start of the match.  
"_Bombarda!_" Malfoy yelled, immediately going on the offensive.

If he had expected the match to end quickly in his favor, he was to be disappointed as Hermione merely shifted gracefully to one side, avoiding the hex. In quick succession, she had cast a shield charm over herself before she shouted, "_Stupefy!_" in response to Malfoy's bludgeoning hex.

Hastily, Malfoy cast a shield charm and responded with a quick, "_Diffindo!_"

Once again, Hermione stepped to the side, while her wand moved fluidly. "_Expeliarmus! Stupefy! Stupefy! __Petrificus Totalus__!_"

The hexes rolled off her tongue in quick succession, causing Malfoy to work his wand desperately in an attempt to deflect or shield them all. The first he managed to dodge, while the two stunning hexes impacted on his shield. The body bind curse, however, blew through the remains of Malfoy's shield, and hit him in the chest. Immediately, Malfoy's arms and legs snapped together and he toppled to the floor, losing his grip on his wand which rolled away from him.

The look on the boy's face was almost comical. He was enraged at being defeated by a mere _Mudblood_, though he also displayed equal parts shame and an almost malevolent, murderous anger. Cat-calls and whistles sounded as Dumbledore lowered the shield and congratulated Hermione, all of which she accepted with a bow and a smile. Not once did she even glance in Malfoy's direction, though Harry himself would undoubtedly have taunted the boy with the ease of his defeat.

Stepping over to the prone blond, Dumbledore's quick finite ended his confinement. The boy immediately jumped to his feet, his fists clenched with rage as he glared belligerently at Hermione. The girl in question paid him little notice, however—she merely peered at him disinterestedly. Her friends, however, were not taking any chances; Harry stepped forward almost in concert with Ron and Neville to flank her, each directing a glare at the Malfoy scion.

"Did you have something you wished to say, Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore inquired. But though his expression was placid—genial, almost—his voice was hard and demanded attention.

Malfoy scowled once again before he stalked over to pick up his wand and, retrieving it, returned to stand next to his friends, who perhaps appeared more stunned than they had a right to be.

"Now, can anyone tell me exactly what went wrong for Mr. Malfoy and, conversely, what Miss Granger did right?"

"Malfoy was overconfident," said Harry with a contemptuous glance at his nemesis. "He assumed that he was better than Hermione and believed he would win easily."

"Not that the ponce would have beaten her anyway," said Ron in a stage whisper.

Suppressed snorts and giggles broke out all over the room, prompting an even deeper scowl to appear on Malfoy's face. Though he betrayed no outward response to Ron's comment, Dumbledore's eyes appeared to twinkle even more than was their wont.

"That will be two points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley," he stated. "It is not very kind to taunt one who has been bested by a superior opponent."

Harry, who was watching the git's response, noted the flaring of his nostrils and the narrowing of his eyes as he was clearly affronted at hearing Hermione be referred to as "superior" to him. He kept his temper this time, however, merely glaring balefully at Hermione, Harry, and Dumbledore alternately.

"But in essence, Mr. Potter is correct. Mr. Malfoy did not take Miss Granger seriously, and paid the price in the end.

"Now, can anyone point out anything that Miss Granger did correctly which allowed her to win the match?"

_It was far too short for that,_ Harry thought with some sarcasm. And indeed, it seemed as though the others in the class were having some difficulty coming up with something that Hermione had done correctly, other than to put the arrogant ponce in his place.

"Her spells were cast quickly?" Susan Bones ventured hesitantly.

"Very good, Miss Bones," answered Dumbledore. "Once Miss Granger dodged the first spell and shielded herself, she immediately went on the offensive and cast several spells in succession. It is very difficult to attack someone else if you are consistently trying to defend against the other person's attack.

"Let this be a lesson to you all," he continued, his manner serious and stern. "You should never take an enemy lightly, whether that enemy is the most powerful wizard alive or the greenest first year in the school.

"Furthermore, I am aware that part of Mr. Malfoy's mistake was to consider Miss Granger inferior simply due to their respective backgrounds." By now, Dumbledore was gazing directly at Malfoy, his tone and mien that of the most accomplished wizard of the age. Malfoy did not respond, however—he contented himself with glaring back at the Headmaster with defiance written all over his face.

"Let me be rightly understood," said Dumbledore in a commanding tone of voice, "your background, specifically who your parents were, and how long magic has been in your family is irrelevant. Some of the most powerful and capable wizards and witches I have ever known were Muggleborn, and conversely, I have known some extremely capable Purebloods. All any of you should worry about are your own studies and your own abilities. In the future, I expect _everyone_ in this—and every other—class to show the proper respect to everyone else who attends. Do not underestimate your opponents or fall into the trap of believing you are better because of your background. In the end, we are all human, regardless of whom our parents were."

The class broke up very quickly after that, the conversation about what had just happened was animated. Harry, along with his other friends and year-mates, crowded around Hermione, congratulating her for defeating the arrogant Pureblood. Malfoy stormed from the room in a rage, pulling his cronies along behind him. A few of the other Slytherins who were not normally considered a part of his clique stood watching the events with some calculation evident on their faces.

Harry ignored them for the most part. He was excessively proud of Hermione for the way she had handled herself in the duel.

"Good show, Hermione!" said Ron, enthusiastically catching her up in a hug.

"Thank you, Ronald," replied Hermione, once he had stepped away. "He's not exactly a challenge—third year proved that."

That of course garnered some attention, and Hermione was forced to recount the events of that year, where she bloodied Malfoy's nose, which in turn prompted more conversation and laughter. It was not untrue to say that by the time the rest of the fifth years had made their way from the classroom that whatever credibility or dignity Malfoy still possessed was in tatters. Harry doubted that anyone would ever see the arrogant ponce as anything other than a whiny little Pureblood who rode on the coattails of his bully of a father.

The exit from the classroom kept the Pureblood ponce at the forefront of everyone's mind, as he had appeared to have waited there in ambush to confront the Gryffindors as they exited the room. Once Hermione had stepped into the hallway he placed himself directly in her path and glared aggressively at her, waving a finger in her direction.

"You filthy little Mudblood!" he hissed. "You will pay for raising your wand to me, you disgusting little whore!"

"Like I paid after I knocked you on your arse in third year?" Hermione asked with disdain. "You've always held a higher opinion of yourself than your abilities ever warranted."

"You will not speak to me!" Malfoy snapped, his wand held out in a threatening manner. "You come from a stock of _Muggles_ and other filth, and are not even worthy to speak the name Malfoy."

Almost as one, the Gryffindors jumped to action, their wands held in their hands, pointed at the Slytherins who had taken position behind their leader. Harry held his wand pointed at Draco's face, and glared at the blond with pure loathing.

"Go ahead, ferret," he snarled. "Give me a reason to pay you back for all the misery you have caused since I've come to Hogwarts."

By this time, the remaining Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs—many of whom were members of the Defense Club—had taken flanking positions to support the Gryffindors. The Slytherins—of whom only Pansy, Millicent, Crabbe and Goyle were supporting the Malfoy heir—were decidedly outnumbered and some were looking uneasily at the array of wands pointed in their direction. Malfoy, however, was focused solely on Hermione, murder evident in his eyes.

"You're nothing but a jumped-up Half-blood, Potty," Malfoy sneered. "You and the Mudblood here—"

"That will be enough!" Dumbledore's voice boomed as he exited the Defense classroom, a worried Padma Patil at his heels. "All wands will be lowered immediately!"

Almost as one, wands fell to the users' sides, as the Headmaster's voice commanded respect and obedience.

"Wands are tools used for the focusing of one's magic, and should never be raised in anger in the hallways of a school," Dumbledore stated, while moving between the antagonists. "For each student who had their wand out, that will be a point deduction—do not ever let me see such a scene in the hallways of Hogwarts again."

Though there were some groans and muffled protests, no one spoke out loud, and Harry could not but admit that it was a fair punishment, regardless of who started the fight, or for what reason—belligerence or protection—their wands were out.

Dumbledore's attention was immediately on the Malfoy heir. "Mr. Malfoy, not fifteen minutes after I reprimanded you for using that vile insult and told you the consequences of its use, I hear you saying it once again. That will be a fifteen point deduction, and a week's detention with Mr. Filch. I advise you to avoid repeating it in the future, as the punishment will be much more severe."  
The only response to the Headmaster's words was a tightening of the Slytherin's lips, and his continued belligerent glare. Apparently Dumbledore took his lack of response as all the acknowledgement he needed. After his words to Harry the previous day about his concern about Malfoy's ability to change, it was apparently the best he could expect.

"Now," Dumbledore's voice was quieter and more reasonable, "you are all dismissed. But you shall all remember that the school is no place for a pitched battle. If this behavior continues, suspensions and expulsions may result."

As soon as he was able, Malfoy turned on his heel and stalked away, his friends following close behind. Harry exchanged glances with his friends and turned to walk toward the Great Hall and dinner. They had not gone two steps before the Headmaster's voice interrupted, asking Harry to stay behind.

"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore began after the rest of the fifth years had filed away, "I understand you were protecting your friend and that Mr. Malfoy was the instigator, but I must ask you to exercise a little more restraint. The things that you are learning in Defense class, and that you are teaching in your club, are worthy and necessary for you to defend yourself, but equally important is the lesson of knowing when to use your knowledge, and when to avoid a fight."

Harry nodded. "I understand, Headmaster. But if Malfoy presses and starts something, we will finish it. And he will not like the result."

Sighing, the Headmaster nodded and steered Harry toward the Great Hall with a grandfatherly pat on his shoulders. "I understand, Harry. I do perceive the path which Mr. Malfoy treads, as I told you during our discussion yesterday. You and your friends have done an admirable job in keeping your tempers and not escalating this rivalry any more than it already is. I must ask for your patience as much as possible. Mr. Malfoy was intensely irate today, and I fear I must share the blame for the situation. I had meant merely to illustrate and teach a lesson, and I fear that the enmity has only deepened."

"It would have anyway," was Harry's response. "Malfoy has been nothing but trouble from the first time I met him on the train. We won't start anything with him or with his friends, but we won't sit back and allow him to bully us either."

"Understandable. I appreciate your continued restraint, and request that you let me, or one of the other professors know if the situation deteriorates any further. I will leave you to dinner with your friends. I fear that there are matters which demand my attention."

Harry watched Dumbledore walk away, reflecting that his words showed much wisdom. Instinctively, however, he knew that no one would ever be able to reach Malfoy. He would end up a Death Eater, and as such, if Harry had his way, he would end up dead, or in Azkaban. No other fate would do; otherwise he would continue to be a menace and a danger. No one would be allowed to hurt any of Harry's friends. He would not allow it.

* * *

Fleur left her class that afternoon with no knowledge of what was happening in and after Defense, but with problems of her own. Upon leaving her last class of the day, she returned to the common room in the company of her seventh year friends. Knowing that Defense would run late that day, she decided to do a little research for an upcoming charms project before meeting Harry for dinner.

The library was quiet, as usual, and given that it was the hour before dinner, it was fairly lightly populated, most of the students apparently choosing to use the time for leisure, rather than study. Fleur knew that later in the evening, the room would most likely be busier as students got down to the business of studying and preparing for the year end exams. Shrugging her shoulders slightly, Fleur made her way through the library, and after finding two books which she had specifically wished to investigate, she made her way to the table which Hermione always used when she was in the library, and began flipping through the books, looking for the pertinent information she required.

It was understandable why Hermione preferred this particular table, Fleur mused as she scanned the books. It was out of the way and quiet, even by the library's standards, and it was also close to a wide variety of subjects and advanced spell books. It was also quite close to the restricted section, should one have a pass for that area of the library, and very convenient. Another benefit to that particular table was the fact that it was quite large and many friends could sit there and study together quite easily. Trust the bookish Hermione to find such a treasure.

Having only sat at the table for a few moments, Fleur was surprised when she heard the sudden creaking of one of the chairs. She looked up, startled, to see Roger grinning at her.

"Hello, Roger," greeted Fleur. She plastered a weak smile on her face and tried to hide the distinct lack of enthusiasm she felt at his presence—how successfully, she was not entirely certain.

Appearing to take no notice at her rather lukewarm greeting, Roger's smile became even larger. "Hey, Fleur—fancy meeting you here."

"I just thought I'd do a bit of research before dinner," Fleur replied

She hoped he would take the hint and leave, or at the very least sit quietly while she searched through the books for the information she needed. It was not to be, however, as Roger appeared to be keen to engage her in conversation—more, even, than normal.

"So what are you working on?"

"I just wanted to find a little more information for our charms assignment," was Fleur's response as she once again looked down into the book.

"Right, the charms assignment," replied Roger with a knowing smile. "How is it coming, by the way?"

Fleur sighed and closed the book, thinking to herself that it would be coming along much better if a certain young man of her acquaintance would leave her alone. "Still planning and researching, but I think it's coming together. How is yours?"

A look of studied nonchalance fell over Roger's face. "I'm getting there. But I was wondering if you wanted to combine our projects—work on it together."

Frowning slightly, Fleur wondered what his purpose for this suggestion was. After all, Professor Flitwick had specifically stated that it was to be an individual project. And as it was to count against the grading of her NEWTs at the end of the year, Fleur was not exactly willing to chance having her grade lowered because she did not follow the professor's instructions.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, Roger," she stated as gently as she could. "You heard Professor Flitwick—this is supposed to be an individual effort."

Though she thought she detected a flash of something resembling annoyance in his expression, Roger masked it well. He just smiled and moved his chair closer to hers, while reaching out to take her hand in one of his own.

"I'm not suggesting we cheat," he said while stroking the back of her hand. "I'm just saying we should work on it together. You know—to come up with ideas, check each other's work, support each other—two heads are better than one, you know."

Shocked, Fleur pulled her hand from his grasp and glared at him. "That's rather inappropriate, Roger."

"There's nothing inappropriate about it," Roger replied, reaching out to take her hand again. He bestowed a kiss upon its back, and once again shuffled his seat a little closer to her. "To be honest, the studying time is just a fringe benefit. I'd like us to get closer again like we did last year. Maybe we could pick up where we left off."

He bent his head, apparently intending to kiss her, when Fleur stood and once again ripped her hand from his grasp. "Roger, this is completely inappropriate behavior. I would ask you to stop."

"Why?" Roger asked, standing and facing her with a half smile on his face. "Why should it be inappropriate for two people who have feelings for one another to show their affection?"

"I think you are overstating my feelings," responded Fleur rather forcefully. "No such feelings exist, and even if they did, it appears to have escaped your attention that I am now betrothed."

At this, Roger's face twisted into an ugly sneer. "Betrothed to a boy with delusions of grandeur—someone who is undeservedly held up on a pedestal and lauded, though he has really done nothing to deserve it."

Stunned by the vitriol in Roger's voice, Fleur gazed back at him with some astonishment. Roger had never given her any indication in the past that he disliked Harry, or that he felt the way his words suggested.

"It appears to me that you don't know Harry," Fleur said with a shake of her head. "He is not as you said, and he would be the first to brush off the fame of surviving the Killing Curse as something he had no control over."

"That doesn't matter," said Roger, once again stepping toward her with his hand extended. Fleur instinctively moved back out of his immediate reach, not wishing to give him any leverage to use against her.

"Come, Fleur—we had it good last year. I know you felt it too. Why shouldn't we have a little fun and romance together while we're young? There's nothing tying you down now."

"I'm _betrothed!_" Fleur snapped. "That ties me down."

"But Potter is always with that Granger girl," Roger wheedled. "Who knows what he's getting up to with her all the time—why shouldn't you have the same opportunity?"

"I trust Harry and Hermione," was Fleur's response. "Besides, I think you are grossly exaggerating any relationship you and I might have had. We had one date at the Yule Ball, which I did not find enjoyable in the slightest. Even if Harry had not entered my life, I certainly would not be pining for you."

Once again Roger's face twisted in a sneer, which reminded Fleur very much of as similar expression she had often seen on the face of a certain Pureblood bigot. "You _owe_ me, Fleur!" he said while jabbing a finger at her pointedly. "I know it was going so well when we left the Yule Ball, but then you had to trick me with your Veela powers and leave me alone in the garden."

"I owe you nothing," snapped Fleur. "Whatever you saw between us was nothing more than your overactive imagination. I'm happy with Harry. I'm sorry, but you were never in the picture."

"In that case, I hope you're happy with the little fame monger," Roger spat. "He's just the right type for someone like you." Roger laughed unpleasantly. "He wanders around with you and that other girl in a daze, and even when he holds your hand he doesn't seem to know what to do with it. Enjoy your time with your little puppy—I think soon enough you'll regret your decision."

With that, Roger stalked from the library, leaving a bewildered Fleur struggling to understand what had just happened. Was it all because of jealousy, or what had happened between them after the ball, or was it something else which was fueling Roger's resentment? He had never given any indication of these feelings before, and the accusations he had hurled concerning Harry were worrisome, though Fleur knew that she should not give them any credence in the slightest.

Though she was comfortable with Harry, a part of her had been a little concerned with the slowness at which their relationship had been developing. Perhaps it was time to push their relationship a little? Fleur had no answers, unfortunately; she knew they were both exploring their new status as best they could.

His accusations regarding Harry she dismissed as nothing more than jealousy. She _knew_ Harry, and she knew that he was not as Roger had stated. Harry was a good person, and she knew she would never need to worry about Harry trying his best to make her happy. They just needed to find their way together.

Having calmed slightly due to her thoughts, Fleur gathered her things together and returned the books to their places on the shelves. She would talk to Harry some time in the near future about their relationship. Together they would figure it out.

* * *

_Updated 06/13/2013_


	23. Chapter 22 – A Change in Stance

**Chapter 22 – A Change in Stance**

That evening at dinner came an announcement which was unexpected, though it was certainly welcome to many of those listening—especially the young women attending the school. Harry and his friends had just arrived in the Great Hall, and were lounging at the house table discussing the events of and immediately following Defense class, not to mention directing sly smirks at the still-enraged Malfoy scion. A single glance at the tosser's ruddy complexion and implacable glare showed clearly that he still had not managed to contain his anger. To the surprise of the assembled students Dumbledore stood from his spot at the head table and motioned for silence.

"I hope you have all enjoyed your classes today," he began when the noise had quieted. "We have had some trying times at Hogwarts recently, and I hope that things will now improve. I wish everyone to know that I will do my best to ensure that you will all have the knowledge you require when the next Defense Professor finally arrives in January. Until then, I truly relish the opportunity to teach. As you all know, I have not spent much time in a classroom in many years, and I find myself once again enjoying the experience.

"But enough of my rambling," he continued with a benevolent smile. "The true reason for my boring you with my overly wordy lecture is to inform everyone that we have decided to introduce a new tradition to our yearly activities at Hogwarts."

Murmurs broke out as the students began to speculate on what this new tradition could possibly be. Harry and his friends merely exchanged glances and turned their attention back to the Headmaster who was watching the students with some affection evident on his countenance. The man was at heart an educator, who truly seemed to enjoy his time with the students.

"We have decided that since the Yule Ball last year was such a success, we will make it a tradition every year at Hogwarts."

At Dumbledore's words, the hall once again burst into noisy murmurs as the students absorbed this news. Looking around, Harry noticed that most of his classmates seemed to be excited about the idea, ready and eager for a night of dancing, listening to music and, most importantly, impressing those of the other sex. He would also have to have been blind to have missed the speculative glances which were directed at him from all over the hall, though most of those glances turned sour as they turned to the radiant blonde sitting by his side.

Fleur seemed to be taking the announcement with a certain amount of eagerness—no doubt she was happy to put the memories of the last Yule Ball to rest in favor of some more pleasant memories with her betrothed. She shot a glance at Harry, her eyebrows raised in question, to which he responded with a smirk and a nod. The expression of smugness which came over her face at their little exchange caused the other girls' faces to turn even sourer, but Harry did not care. He would not need to worry about his date and put off asking someone until the last second this time—no, this time he would attend with the most beautiful girl in the school on his arm. In fact, now that he thought of it, a ghost of an idea began to form in his mind…

"As with last year's ball," Dumbledore continued, interrupting his thoughts, "This ball, and all future balls, will be open to fourth years and up. Those in first, second and third years will have their own party in another part of the castle, though they may attend the Yule Ball if they are asked by someone who is old enough to attend.

"This ball will be held on the final Friday of the year, and you will return to your homes the day after on the express. Please remember that there will be a Hogsmeade weekend the week before the ball, so if there is any finery which needs to be procured, that will be the day to do so."

Dumbledore smiled with some amusement at the students before he clapped his hands together once and gestured to the tables. "Now, I believe I have kept you from your dinner for quite long enough."

The volume in the hall once again rose as the Headmaster took his seat and the students began eating their dinner and talking all at once. The discussion around Harry's place was animated, with the girls generally being excited at the prospect of another dance, while the boys were of mixed emotions. Ron particularly seemed to be reacting in much the same manner as he had the previous year, though Harry did notice him sneak a few looks in Hermione's direction. If Hermione had accepted his request to date he would have had a date already, but as that had not happened, he was clearly a little put out that she had rejected him. Ron had made a lot of progress, but he seemed as though he had still not completely come to terms with the reality of the situation.

Knowing that his own feelings on the occasion were in marked contrast to what Ron was feeling and not wishing to give the touchy redhead a reason to be jealous, Harry avoided looking at his friend, instead concentrating on another one of his friends. Since the announcement of the ball, Neville had sat with the rest of the group without adding much to the conversation. Neville's expression was pensive and thoughtful, but his frequent glances at the Ravenclaw table were both telling, and somewhat amusing. It appeared as though the past few months which had pointed toward a budding romance between the shy Gryffindor and a certain ethereal Ravenclaw were about to be proved as fact rather than speculation.

Smiling to himself, Harry took his attention away from his friend. He hoped Neville was able to gather the courage necessary to ask Luna to the ball, but he had himself to think of at that moment. It was time to make a splash.

Plotting, Harry waited until he—and his target—had finished their dinner. As the time neared for them to return to the common room for the evening, he abruptly stood and turned to face Fleur. In an extravagant manner he knelt on one knee and gathered Fleur's hand in his own and, noting her slightly surprised but amused smile, he returned it with a grin of his own before he spoke.

"Miss Delacour, as the most beautiful girl in the room and as my fair betrothed, I would be honored if you would deign to accompany me to the Yule Ball." Harry extended his wand and with a flourish, conjured a yellow rose with a red highlights at the end of the petals, remembering a magazine of his aunt's which had listed the meanings of various flowers. "Please accept this rose as a token of my esteem and my joy that we have been brought together."

Fleur blushed slightly and reached out to accept the rose. Bringing it close to her face, she inhaled the scent deeply, before favoring him with a dazzling smile. "I would love to attend the ball with you, kind sir. I thank you for choosing me out of all the girls you could have favored with your attention."

"No, my dear," Harry continued in an exaggeratedly gallant manner. "With such radiance before me, I could never even conceive of taking anyone else to the ball. I will appear as nothing more than a poor country cousin next to your brilliance."

Smirking, Fleur leaned toward Hermione, who was gazing at Harry in shock, as though she did not know him. "He's definitely a keeper, Hermione," she said with a little laugh. "I'm glad you trained him so well."

"I certainly didn't teach him _that_," Hermione murmured in response.

"I am sure you will acquit yourself quite well indeed, Mr. Potter," said Fleur, turning her attention back to Harry. "I await the ball with breathless anticipation."

Bowing, Harry kissed Fleur's hand before he stood and pulled her to her feet, all to the thunderous applause which burst over the Great Hall. Smirking, Harry turned and bowed slightly in all directions, noting the cheering, and the now softened faces of many of the girls who had previously been glaring at Fleur. There was nothing like a hint of romance to soften the demeanor of any girl.

In passing, he also noted the disdainful sneer etched on the still-furious face of one poncy ferret. Harry made it a special point to flip a jaunty salute in Malfoy's direction, gleefully noting the haughty glare he received in response, before he took Fleur's hand and placed it on his arm, and guided her from the room.

Hermione, who had joined them and was walking at Harry's other side, frowned and peered at Harry. "Who are you and what have you done with Harry Potter?"

Smirking, Harry shrugged once. "It seemed like the thing to do at the time," he said blandly. "I've spent every moment of my existence in the magical world wishing I wasn't famous. I figure there's nothing I can do about it, so I may as well use it to my advantage."

His answer appeared to bring Hermione up short, but after a moment she nodded and grinned at Fleur. "There, Fleur. You see? He's growing up all by himself."

Laughing, Fleur grasped Harry's arm a little tighter. "He'll do just fine, Hermione."

She directed a pointed look at Hermione, which in response the brunette flushed a little. But before Harry could give some thought as to what was passing between the two girls, he heard a voice calling for them to wait. Harry stopped and turned to see a young, redhead girl approaching.

Susan Bones gazed at him with a certain admiration, before she laughed and addressed him. "Smooth, Potter—really smooth. You could have had just about any girl in the hall falling at your feet had you asked them instead of Fleur."

"Well, what can I say?" Harry asked with a smirk. "Some of us have it, and others—"

He stopped suddenly as his two companions, acting in concert, smacked him in the back of his head, prompting a delighted laugh from Susan.

"Methinks someone has an exaggerated opinion of his own charm," Hermione said to Fleur.

"Perhaps," responded Fleur with a grin at Harry, who was now rubbing the back of his head and grumbling. "I can take his charm as long as he directs it at me."

"What can we do for you, Susan?" Harry asked, deciding it was best to simply ignore his friends' banter.

"Umm… Can I have a minute of your time?" Susan Bones asked, suddenly appearing nervous.

Though he did not know Susan well at all, Harry knew her to be a bright and pleasant sort of girl. She had red hair—though more of an orange color, unlike the Weasley family's fiery locks—blue eyes, and was of average stature, and though she was perhaps a trifle too pleasantly plump for Harry's tastes, she was not unattractive. Moreover, the way she had handled herself in Defense class with Umbridge—not to mention the few times he had seen her in the Defense Club—told him that she was competent. In addition, though they had never talked much, she had always appeared to him to be a rather friendly person.

"Sure, Susan, what would you like?"

Susan glanced around the hall and gestured toward an empty anteroom. "Can we step inside that room for a moment?"

Intrigued, Harry motioned for her to lead the way. They trooped into the room and stopped as Susan turned to face them. Now that Harry had a chance to stop and look, his earlier impression of her nervousness was confirmed in the way she was wringing her hands and peering at them uncertainly. It was something he had never seen from her before.

"Harry," she began, the slight quaver in her voice reinforcing his observations. "I have someone I'd like to introduce to you. Someone who is interested in joining the club," she finished in a rush.

At Harry's raised eyebrow, she scowled and fixed him with a determined glare. "Well, you _did_ say that we were welcome to pass the word to those we considered trustworthy. And besides, I figured that with Umbridge gone that secrecy was not really much of an issue any more."

"That's true I guess," Harry admitted. "Who is it?"

Susan's indignation faded and once again a slight sense of nervousness appeared to settle over her. "Well, she's a friend of mine—her family and mine have been friends for years. She said that she has some other friends and housemates who are also interested in attending."

"And _who_ is it?" Harry asked, becoming somewhat suspicious of her. She would not have acted this way if she intended to simply introduce someone she thought would be good for the club—it must be someone she was afraid he would reject.

Appearing to come to a decision, Susan squared her shoulders and declared resolutely, "Daphne Greengrass."

Surprised, Harry's eyebrow once again rose at the girl's statement. Of course he knew who Daphne was—the year groups at Hogwarts were small enough that it was easy to remember everyone's name. His shock was more due to the fact that it was difficult to believe that anyone would invite a Slytherin to the club, knowing in general what that house stood for—and to a large extent, _who_ they stood for.

Harry was about to respond in such a manner, when a snippet from his conversation with the Headmaster the previous evening entered his mind.

_"I would caution you against painting the entire house with the same brush."_

Mulling it over in his mind, Harry wondered about the Headmaster's statement, and his own prejudices against the house of the snake. Had his early experiences with Malfoy jaded him against the entire house? Were they all like Malfoy and his father? Could he trust any of them to watch his back and oppose Voldemort?

The obvious answer to his questions was, of course, that yes, he had allowed Malfoy to prejudice him against Slytherin whether his bias was warranted or not. All throughout his first four years and part of the fifth, the Pureblood ponce had gone out of his way to proclaim how superior he was, and how inferior he considered others to be and Harry, not truly having much to do with any of Malfoy's housemates, had subconsciously painted them all with the same brush. Was there some good to be found in Slytherin house? Of the answer to that question he was not certain—he did not have enough experience with them to come to any conclusion, after all—but perhaps for the first time, he considered the question without resorting to the biases of the past. As Dumbledore had so astutely noted, not all Gryffindors were noble and good. It stood to reason that not all Slytherins could be dark, bigoted supporters of Voldemort either.

With this new outlook in mind, Harry focused his attention back on Susan. "Do you trust Daphne?"

"As I said, she's been a friend for a long time. In fact, with my aunt being so busy at the DMLE, I often will stay several weeks with the Greengrasses during the summer. Daphne's mum and my mum were best friends at Hogwarts."

"And you mentioned some others," Harry prompted. "Do you know who they are, or how many? Are we to be overrun by Slytherin students eager to improve their defense skills?"

Susan ignored Harry's feeble attempts at humor—perhaps wisely, Harry reflected in a rueful manner. "I would imagine that her little sister Astoria and her friend Tracey Davis would be involved, but other than them, I don't know who else she has in mind—if anyone."

"I think we should meet them first," said Hermione. "Slytherin house doesn't exactly have a sterling reputation and I think that we should get some indication from them why they want to be involved."

An indignant expression appeared on Susan's face, but her words were neatly preempted by a conciliatory Fleur. "We don't want to imply your friends aren't trustworthy, Susan. We just want to meet them for ourselves—Slytherin in general has not been kind to Harry, nor have they been welcoming to Hermione or me."

"Besides, what do you think the reaction would be to a bunch of Slytherins suddenly walking in on our meeting?"

Grudgingly Susan allowed both Hermione and Fleur's points in a tight nod. "So, when did you want to meet them?"

"Tomorrow after dinner?" Harry suggested. "Wednesday is our next meeting. We could talk to them and if they check out, we could introduce them to everyone then."

"Thanks, Harry," Susan said, clearly relieved that the discussion had gone so well. After a few more moments in which they arranged a time and place to meet the Slytherins the next day she exited the room.

Harry exchanged glances with his two female companions. "Well, what do you think?"

Grimacing, Hermione said, "While all my experience with Slytherin says that they can't be trusted, I must admit I don't really know Daphne and Tracey. They've always seemed to be pretty aloof in the past, but that could just be because we don't know them."

"Or it could be because of the whole 'house of the ambitious and cunning' thing," Harry retorted sourly.

"There isn't much we can do but wait and see," Fleur interjected. "For what it's worth, I think you made the right choice. The only thing you can do now is talk to them and see what they have to say."

Deep in thought, Harry nodded his assent before leading the girls from the room. While he knew that speaking with Daphne's group was the right thing to do, a part of him wished that he could just go on believing that all Slytherins were evil and leave it at that. That outlook was, at the very least, much less complicated.

* * *

Daphne Greengrass was a pretty young woman with a wealth of lustrous black hair and startling deep blue eyes. She was of average height and possessed a slim build, and she carried herself with confidence and poise. And as she sat in the empty classroom gazing at Harry, he wondered what type of person she truly was.

To Harry, she had always seemed quiet and uncommunicative, though he had to admit that he had, at times, witnessed her in moments when she had been open and even engaging with her friends. Her quiet persona was possibly due to the fact that she was guarded in dealings with those she did not know, or it could be because her reticence was simply due to shyness—Harry was not certain. Her frank gaze at that moment, however, seemed to suggest that she was not shy of him. Instead, her gaze was confident and assured.

By contrast, her friend Tracey Davis was dumpy and plain, her face framed by limp, mousy brown hair which was gathered haphazardly into a messy ponytail, though several strands had escaped their confinement. Tracey, Harry knew, was garrulous and outgoing, if her loud peals of laughter and constantly chatty demeanor he had observed was to be believed.

Of the others in the room, Harry knew even less. Blaise Zabini was of African descent, and was a tall, broad shouldered boy in Harry's year, with short cropped black hair. His taciturnity was legendary, to the extent that not even those of his own house knew much about him. He was considered to be an antisocial loner, who was disparaged by Malfoy and his crew almost as much as they disparaged Harry himself. Whether this had ever bothered the boy was completely unknown—he had the most impenetrable poker face Harry had ever seen on another person.

The final three were even more of an enigma. Astoria Greengrass was a younger copy of her older sister, the only major difference between the two being her much lighter shade of ice blue eyes. Nigel Johnson was a seventh year who Harry had only noticed a few times in passing, while Greta White was a fourth year, pretty and blond, but with a sneering, superior expression of which Malfoy would almost have been envious.

The six sat at various desks around the empty classroom, holding themselves aloof from the three Gryffindors and one Hufflepuff, but Harry had to suppress a smile at the thought of the proud and haughty Slytherins appearing before him like some supplicant pilgrims. Slytherins, by their very nature, never did something without there being some benefit for themselves, their families, or their house. Harry was intrigued to discover exactly what these six felt they could gain.

Susan handled the introduction of Daphne to the three Gryffindors, who then proceeded to introduce the others. Once the formalities had been concluded, they got down to business.

"We understand that you have started a Defense Club and would like to inquire about joining," Daphne said without preamble. It seemed that she had been appointed spokesman for the group.

"We have," Harry confirmed simply.

"Then how does one go about joining?" demanded Tracey.

"It's an invitation only club," said Harry. "In response, I would inquire why you would want to join a Defense Club run by a bunch of hotheaded Gryffindors."

"The fact that we want to learn more about Defense isn't enough?" asked Daphne.

"In a world where Voldemort is on the loose and certain members of Slytherin house openly support him it is most certainly not enough."

At the winces the use of the Dark Lord's name produced, Harry scowled. "Look, if you are to join our group, you will need to learn not to flinch every time someone mentions the name Voldemort. It's just a stupid name he made up because he doesn't like his Muggle name. Ask Fleur if you want to know what it means."

"I know enough French to translate it, thank you very much," said Daphne somewhat primly. Then a contemplative expression stole over her face and she regarded him openly. "You still claim that… the Dark Lord has returned do you?"

"It's the truth." Harry shrugged. "Why would I claim anything else? I swore an oath on my magic at the first meeting of the club, so if you don't believe me, ask anyone who was there."

The members of Slytherin house all shared a look before they turned their attention back to Harry. "In that case, it seems like we have all the more reason to learn how to defend ourselves."

At Harry's skeptical expression, Daphne threw her hands up in the air. "Honestly, Potter, I know you've had problems with certain members of our house, but not everyone in Slytherin is named 'Malfoy,' and not all of us stand for what he stands for. Not all Slytherins are slimy Death Eater wannabes."

"So you're not in Malfoy's camp?"

"Do we look like we're in Malfoy's camp?" demanded Tracey. "Think back, Potter—have you ever seen anyone here associating with Malfoy? Have any of us ever given you the grief that he gives you?"

"You haven't," Harry admitted. "In fact, I hardly know any of you."

"Then give us a chance," said Blaise, speaking for the first time. As a matter of fact, Harry could not say definitively that he had ever even heard the other boy's voice before now—he was that enigmatic.

Turning, Harry raised his eyebrows at the three girls. Fleur and Hermione said nothing, but Susan huffed in some impatience.

"I can certainly vouch for Daphne and Astoria, Harry. The others I don't know well, but I'm sure Daphne would not have brought them here if she didn't trust them."

"Really, it's their word that we have to take into account," Hermione said. She then turned to look at Harry. "What do you think?"

"I'm inclined to allow them to participate," said Harry, eyeing the Slytherins, thinking once again about Dumbledore's words. "If we start imagining _everyone_ to be aligned with Voldemort, we'll end up paranoid, jumping at every shadow which crosses our paths."

"But we do have to be careful," cautioned Fleur.

"Agreed," said Harry evenly. "But I'm not going down that path."

"Would it help if we were to swear an oath?" asked Daphne in a dry tone of voice.

"I hardly think that is required," responded Hermione. She was regarding the other girl with an appraising eye, though Harry was uncertain whether it was because she knew something of Daphne, or something else. "I think your word will suffice for the time being. You will have to sign a register, which prevents you from betraying the club, though admittedly with Umbridge gone it's not as big an issue as it used to be."

"What happens if we do betray the club?" Daphne asked. Watching her body language and the casual way in which she asked the question Harry suspected that her question was based on nothing more than curiosity. Still, it would do to be watchful of these Slytherins for a time—he did not really _know or trust_ them as of yet.

"Let's just say that it would be unpleasant," said Hermione without any further explanation. Up to this point, Hermione had been very evasive when questioned about what exactly she had done to the register, not even sharing it with her closest friends.

"Then how was I able to talk to Daphne about it?" asked Susan. She appeared somewhat perplexed.

"I based the ward on intent and actual harm," Hermione admitted slowly, clearly not wishing still to give up much information. "I won't share exactly what I did with it, as I don't want someone to come up with a way to circumvent it, but in a very basic sense, since you were not intending to cause the club any harm, the consequences were not activated. That's not all of it, but it does explain your ability to talk about it."

"That's a fairly complicated and advanced ward scheme," said Daphne. She appeared a little skeptical.

"That's our Hermione," Harry said with a look of pride at his closest friend. "She isn't just book learned, you know," he said in a teasing manner.

"Harry!" Hermione scolded, embarrassed.

Harry merely gazed back at her, projecting an air of amused impudence.

The Slytherins appeared to accept this without further comment, though Daphne continued to peer at Hermione with some skepticism evident on her features. If Harry were to be completely honest with himself, he felt a little affronted on behalf of his friend. It seemed a typical sort of Slytherin reaction to assume themselves superior to Muggleborns—and everyone else, for that matter. Hermione was an extremely knowledgeable and even gifted witch. It was time that others started recognizing that fact, rather than this stupid blood nonsense which was pushed—and even passively accepted—by so many.

"We will sign your register," Daphne stated after meeting the gaze of the rest of her housemates. "As I said, none of us are part of Malfoy's group, and we want to learn to defend ourselves."

"Will this not cause difficulties in your house?" Harry asked.

Daphne snorted and several of the others either rolled their eyes or appeared to brush the question off with little or no concern. However, once again Daphne acted as the spokesman for the group. "Malfoy—and perhaps certain others—will undoubtedly make a stink about it once it becomes known. We're not really concerned about that."

"Only certain others?" was Harry's skeptical response.

"You are thinking like a Gryffindor, Potter," Tracey stated bluntly. "No doubt the house of the lion enjoys a certain amount of house unity. Slytherin is the house of the cunning and, more importantly, the ambitious. Unity is all well and good, but ambition does not foster trust and unity very well. It is difficult enough to realize your ambitions; trusting someone else can easily see you stabbed in the back."

"What Tracey is trying to say," interjected Daphne once again, "is that Slytherin, as a house, tends to be more everyone for themselves. About the only thing that unifies Slytherin at all is Quidditch and the house cup, and even then it's only superficial."

It was all very well and good for them to say that—they knew their house and their housemates better than Harry did, after all. But he could not help but think that they were downplaying the issue. Dumbledore's admonishments aside, Slytherin was a house essentially for the Purebloods and their very ideals fostered bigotry. Any fraternizing with the enemy—in this case Gryffindor and what Gryffindor house stood for—would surely bring the more conservative element of Slytherin out of the woodwork with a vengeance.

"Oh honestly, Potter," Daphne snapped in irritation, "why do you care about a bunch of Slytherins anyway? We told you it won't be a problem—shouldn't that be enough?"

"I care because I'm leading the club," Harry rejoined. "I don't teach anyone to become a target—I teach them so that hopefully they will be less of an enticing target, not to mention the effect I hope it will have on everyone's OWLs and NEWTs."

Daphne's face softened and she smiled ruefully. "I suppose I'm just not used to your… Gryffindor caring."

"Whatever," Tracey said with a grunt. "The fact of the matter is that any one of us here can take care of Malfoy right now without any further instruction, and the bunch of us together can hold off him and his cronies. Malfoy has a much higher opinion of his own capabilities than he truly possesses."

"As defense class today demonstrated," Daphne interjected with a grin at Hermione. "Nice work, by the way. It was good to see the 'Prince of Slytherin' taken down a notch and exposed for being the blowhard he is."

Harry grinned at his friend. "It's not the first time Hermione has taken him down, but it is probably the first time he's been shown up so thoroughly in front of the entire class."

"You'll have to tell us about it some time," Daphne said. "For now, all you have to be concerned with is the fact that we can defend ourselves when it comes to Malfoy and his gang. No one else in Slytherin will care enough to confront us over it.

"In fact," she continued with a smirk, "the more cunning will likely congratulate us for getting closer to you. They'll likely think we're using you and playing both sides."

"And are you?"

Daphne affected an innocent expression. "I can't tell you that now, can I? It would not be very cunning of me if I revealed my plans and motivations."

Harry decided right then and there that he _liked_ Daphne. She was obviously intelligent, seemed sincere, and she had an understated sense of humor which he found infectious. He was almost persuaded; there was just one more thing which needed to be said.

"Very well then," he said, and when he continued, he tried to project a very serious and implacable air. "But one thing you must all understand. I don't know exactly what your feelings are or what your beliefs are regarding this blood purity nonsense, but there is no room for that in the Defense Club."

If he had expected any of the Slytherins to take offense—or even react at all—to his words he was disappointed. The six of them simply sat and watched him, expressionless, waiting for him to complete his instructions.

"Everyone in the club is equal," Harry continued, "and if you feel like you are better than Fleur or Hermione because of their ancestry, then I suggest you either bury those feelings deep or don't bother to join. As Hermione demonstrated in Defense class, she is the equal of anyone in any house, no matter what their blood status is."

Hermione appeared to be somewhat embarrassed at Harry's praise, but that did not stop him. He would not put up with anything which would cause either of his two companions any discomfort.

"Really, Potter," Daphne finally responded with a certain sense of exasperation, "do you think we would really be here if we bought into all that Pureblood stuff?"

"I don't know," Harry responded with a smirk. "You're Slytherins after all—you may simply be in this to get close to me."

Daphne and Tracey exchanged a glance and laughed. "Touché, Potter, touché," Tracey said. The Slytherins in general appeared to be somewhat amused at Harry's ability to throw the words of one of their own back at her. Perhaps he had gained a modicum of respect from these snakes.

"If it will help, none of us here put any stock in blood purity," Greta White spoke up for the first time. "Besides us swearing an oath, I'm not sure what else we can do to assure you of our sincerity."

Though his original opinion of her as a haughty girl was not appeased in the slightest as a result of her tone of voice, she at least appeared to be sincere. Harry could do nothing more than nod in response.

"Your word will do. I just wanted that fact understood before we go any further, and would prefer not to have to kick anyone out of the club if I can help it."

"Understandable," Daphne murmured.

Their impromptu meeting broke up soon after, with the Slytherins promising to arrive early to the club meeting on Wednesday in order to sign the register. Harry left the classroom pondering what had just occurred, not to mention the change in his attitude toward certain Slytherins. The next club meeting would undoubtedly prove to be interesting; no doubt, displeasure at their presence would come from several quarters.

* * *

As requested, the six Slytherins arrived about a half hour before the Club meeting was scheduled to begin. The signing of the register was accomplished in a moment, and though Harry would perhaps have expected members of the house of the ambitious to want a detailed explanation, or at least attempt through guile to discover some idea of what the consequences for betraying the club consisted, the Slytherins said nothing. They merely signed their names to the register and turned their attention to Harry, clearly expecting him to instruct them on what they could expect next.

Taking the lead, Harry used the time remaining before the meeting trying to determine exactly what level these new entrants were at, so the trio could properly determine where they fit in with the club. What he had expected from them as a group he certainly could not have said. The only Slytherins he had ever witnessed performing any actual magic were Malfoy and his group, as he had never made a habit of watching any Slytherins in any of his classes. Malfoy had been exposed as much more talk than competence, his book-end bodyguards were downright stupid, while Parkinson was certainly no threat herself. The only one who seemed to have any level of real skill to back up his threats was Nott, and Harry did not know enough about him to truly judge. Thus, his examples of Slytherin competence were not exactly sterling.

By contrast, these particular Slytherins appeared to be able to back whatever boasts they chose to make with their wands. Daphne and Tracey handled themselves with an understated confidence, and cast whatever spells Harry requested with no hesitation, and while finesse was perhaps not Blaise Zabini's strong point, he more than made up for that lack with brute strength. Nigel was quick and efficient with his casting, and while Greta and Astoria—the younger members—were perhaps not as polished or knowledgeable as their older companions, they appeared to understand the material at their level as well as could be expected.

It was obvious that in terms of sheer skill and competence, the Slytherins would fit into the club quite nicely. It would remain to be seen whether or not they would fit in socially.

When the clock was nearing seven, Harry asked the Slytherins to have a seat as they awaited the arrival of the rest of the club. They did what they were asked without protest, likely expecting that protests to their inclusion would come from certain quarters—Harry had told them he would handle any objections, and that they should keep their peace until they were asked to speak. He hoped he had imparted the need to adhere to his request with enough urgency—nothing _they_ said would gain them acceptance, he felt. He would have to vouch for them; after that it would be up to them to prove themselves to the other members.

As the club began to filter in, Harry and his companions searched for reactions to the newcomers. They found surprise aplenty, though most showed no more than that.

It was nearing seven when Professors Flitwick and Dumbledore entered the room.

"Did you know that the Headmaster would be here, Harry?" Fleur asked quietly.

Harry shook his head. "He didn't mention anything to me."

"He obviously wants to see what we're doing," said Hermione.

By that time the two professors had made their way through the rows of chairs, and approached with smiles upon their faces. "Harry!" the Headmaster greeted jovially. "I hope you don't mind my attending. I thought I'd come and see how your club works."

"Of course, Headmaster," Harry responded, though in truth he was not at all enthusiastic about Dumbledore's presence. It was not every day that one had the school Headmaster—who also happened to be teaching Defense at present—sit in to see how well you were doing teaching others.

"I must admit to being curious myself," Flitwick chimed in. The excitable little Charms Professor had eagerly accepted Harry's request to become the staff sponsor for the club, and had even agreed to assist in the instruction of dueling practices.

"We hope we do not disappoint," said Hermione, though her easy smile belied any sense of nervousness her words may have engendered.

"Nonsense!" was Flitwick's jovial response. "I have every confidence in Mr. Potter's skill, and your ability to plan properly with the help of Miss Delacour here." This last he said with a smile toward Fleur, who returned in as easy a manner as Hermione had.

"Yes, well I think we should sit back and observe for the time being," Dumbledore interjected. He smiled and nodded at Harry and his friends before he and Flitwick chose a pair of chairs off to the side of where the club members were sitting.

During the brief conversation with the two professors, the final stragglers had arrived. The expressions on the faces of the students were a mixture of surprise that the Headmaster had joined them, and suspicion at the presence of the Slytherins.

Unsurprisingly—and perhaps surprisingly—the most marked disapproving reactions were from Ron—whose disdain for all things Slytherin was almost legendary—and Roger Davies, though both of them immediately noted the presence of two members of the staff and wisely kept their own counsel. Harry had expected Ron to object to the presence of the members of the house of the snake, though he thought that Ron was open-minded enough to grudgingly accept it, once their reasons had been made known.

Roger, though, was an enigma. His first reaction to seeing the Slytherins was surprise, which had soon turned to suspicion and, unless Harry misread him entirely, fury at their presence. Even after he sat down, he engaged in directing surreptitious glares, though he was discreet enough about it that Harry suspected no one else in the room noticed.

What concerned Harry even more were the looks of equal disgust Roger directed at _him_ when he thought Harry was not looking. The Ravenclaw had been doing the same thing for the past several days, though Harry could not think of anything he had done recently which would account for Roger's behavior. Roger had never precisely been friendly in the past, but he had certainly never been this antagonistic. Perhaps the matter had something to do with Fleur, though if that was the case, Harry would have thought Roger's behavior would have begun back in September when Harry had arrived at the school already betrothed to Fleur, and not more than two months later. The fact that Fleur had confirmed that there had been absolutely nothing between them the previous year seemed to disprove that theory. Whatever the cause, apparently the Boy-Who-Lived had somehow managed to offend the Ravenclaw Head Boy. Whatever it was, Harry decided he would not worry about it. If Roger decided to make something of it, Harry would deal with it at that time.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Harry noted that the entire club had arrived, and after sharing a glance with his two companions, stood to begin the meeting.

"Let's get started, everyone," Harry said, as the room quieted. "Today we'll be practicing some more dueling techniques, as well as the defensive spell for this week. But before we begin, I'm sure that all of you have noticed the additions of several new faces to our group."

Motioning to the two professors, he continued, "First, I'd like to welcome Headmaster Dumbledore, who will be observing tonight, as well as our staff sponsor, Professor Flitwick."

The two faculty members nodded to the polite applause which erupted in response to the introduction, while Harry grinned at them. "Given the pleasure that Defense class was this week, I'm looking forward to the Headmaster lending his expertise. And though some of you may not know it, Professor Flitwick was a professional dueling champion. I'm sure we will all benefit from their assistance.

"In addition," Harry continued, as the club members took in this intelligence, "we also have some new members. Please join us all in welcoming Daphne Greengrass, Astoria Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Blaise Zabini, Greta White, and Nigel Johnson to our ranks."

A halfhearted round of applause met Harry's statement, prompting a sardonic smirk to appear on Daphne's face. It was an expression which was mirrored on most of the Slytherin party's faces, though Harry could not help but feel that such an obvious level of sarcasm would do nothing to help ensure their acceptance into the club.

"I thought this club was to be kept a secret, Potter," said Roger with a disdainful sniff. "It seems that little restriction has gone by the wayside rather quickly."

"If you want to blame anyone, blame me," Susan spoke up with a glare for the Head Boy. "I was the one who spoke to Daphne and invited her—our family has been friends for years."

Roger snorted. "Family friends or not, I was under the assumption that we were not to speak with anyone regarding the club, or there would be consequences. Did your precautions not work?"

"The protections on the parchment work fine," said Hermione. "We had always intended for the members to be able to speak to others of the club who they trusted."

"Well, Slytherins don't exactly have a sterling reputation for trustworthiness," said Justin Finch-Fletchley.

It was unsurprising that a Hufflepuff would be the one to bring up the issues of trust and loyalty. They were, however, all good questions, though perhaps not the most tactfully stated—a few days prior Harry would have had exactly the same things to say in response to the presence of _any_ member of the house of the snake. Though perhaps the objections of the club could be overcome, their new members would have to prove themselves by their actions and words over a longer period of time.

"That really doesn't matter," Hermione was saying in response to Justin's charge. "Susan considered Daphne to be trustworthy, and thus the protections were not brought into play."

"Seems to be a pretty poor way of setting up your security," Roger said with a slight sneer.

Harry gazed at the Head Boy, wondering what he was about. His disapproval and deep scowl were such that Harry thought he may have been more vocal in his dissatisfaction. It was possible he was moderating his statements in view of the fact that the Headmaster was in the room, but Harry could not be certain.

"Regardless of what some members believe," Harry instructed with a pointed glance at Roger, "it has always been our intention to allow the club to spread to a certain extent by word of mouth. The only thing we asked was for the members to be careful in whom they were placing their trust."

"And I would not have said a thing if Umbridge had still been in the school," Susan broke in. "I still trust Daphne, but with the way Umbridge was courting Malfoy and his group, I wouldn't have taken the chance that they might have found out something."

"Shouldn't we allow the Slytherins to have their say?" asked Fleur.

All eyes turned to the group in silver and green sitting to the side of the room, but to their credit, none of them even batted an eyelash.

"I can only tell everyone what we told Potter when we met with him," was Daphne's simple reply. "That Slytherins by nature are ambitious and cunning is undeniable. But not all of us are part of Malfoy's little club. We are here to learn more about how to defend ourselves and our families. None of us have any ties to Death Eaters, Pureblood supremacists, or any other unsavory group."

"You met with them and interviewed them, Harry?" asked Ron.

Though Harry would have liked to know where his best friend was going with this question, Ron's face was schooled into a credible poker face. "We did, just a couple of nights ago."

"And you were satisfied with their reasons and their sincerity?"

"We were," Harry confirmed. "They also signed the register, which is no small gesture of trust and responsibility on their part."

Ron's gaze turned to the Slytherins and after a moment he seemed to come to a decision. He turned back to Harry and said, "If you think they're trustworthy, then that's good enough for me."

More than one jaw dropped in response to Ron's surprising statement, to which Ron merely arched an eyebrow at the company. "What?" he demanded with a sardonic smirk. "Yeah, I know you all expected me to fly off the handle here, but I trust Harry. If he says the Slytherins are trustworthy, I'll accept them until they prove otherwise. The rest of this talk is pointless—let's get down to business here."

"Very good, Mr. Weasley," the Headmaster, apparently forgotten by most of the room, said in response to Ron's statement. "Let this be a lesson to you all—never judge someone on so little information as to what house they belong. Always reserve your judgment and use your own observation to determine whether you can trust someone. You may get a nasty shock if you do otherwise."

With that, all opposition appeared to melt away; no one—not even the head boy, who still appeared to be unhappy at the Slytherins' presence—was about to argue with the most famous wizard of his day.

The club did get down to business shortly after, though this time, with Dumbledore and Flitwick assisting, the instruction was often passed from Harry and his friends to the older and more experienced teachers. Flitwick was a master of using one's strengths and limiting one's weaknesses, while Dumbledore was such an amazing fount of knowledge and experience, that the time passed by swiftly, and Harry felt like the evening had truly been a success.

* * *

_Updated 06/17/2013_


	24. Chapter 23 – Developments

**Chapter 23 – Developments**

"_It is about time you arrived."_

_ Peevish. Impatient. Demanding. It is unlike Harry to be so… petulant, so arrogant and imperious in his demands._

_ Harry? Is it truly Harry? The question has no meaning. He is._

_ Location likewise has no meaning. The room is large, but poorly lit, with flaming lamps at intervals along the wall, which sputters and smokes, filling the air with a miasma and adding to the feeling of the abyss—a hell on earth. The chair is high backed, situated in such a way as to give the appearance of a throne._

_ But such details are extraneous. More impression than reality._

_ A murmur or two of conversation undulates in the distance, though indistinct—nothing more than the distant crash of waves upon a shore. The denizens of this place know the consequences of interrupting their lord and master._

_ Lord? Master?_

_ The thought is shaken off almost as soon as it appears. It too is unimportant. Irrelevant. The blond figure of a Death Eater quickly approaches from the entrance to the room. His face is craggy and worn, and his hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Again, his appearance is fuzzy and almost indistinct. Unimportant._

_ The answers he hopefully possesses are _not_ inconsequential._

_ "I apologize, My Lord," the figure says, making his obeisance. "I was detained by Amelia Bones on a matter of DMLE business."_

_ He spears the man with a sharp gaze. "Anything about which I should be concerned?"_

_ "Auror budgets, My Lord," the other says with a snort. "With Fudge in control, the flailing in the Auror department has not let up. Madam Bones is trying to make the most of her limited means, but her success is middling at best."_

_ Satisfaction. Contentment. All is as it should be._

_ "Very well, then," he says with a negligent wave of his hand. "I sincerely hope you have some news for me."_

_ The blond man shakes his head with some regret. "Unfortunately, My Lord, the news I bring is not good."_

_ Settling back in his chair, he eyes his underling with some exasperation. The temptation is there—it was always there—to give the man a taste of the fate of all those who fail. Pain. Suffering. Humiliation._

_ Still, it is likely not his fault, after all. He was sent to procure a specific piece of information, and if the information is not to his benefit, it is hardly the man's fault. Object lessons are all well and good, but it is also necessary that there be some reason for dispensing them. For now it is better to listen and wait—punishment can be administered later, should it be warranted._

_ "What have you discovered?"_

_ "The Hall of Prophecy is virtually undefended, My Lord. Unfortunately it does not need to be, as the prophecy globes are all protected by a series of protections which render them untouchable by any but the subject of the prophecy contained therein."_

_ "And what is the nature of these protections?"_

_ The Death Eater spreads his arms open in supplication. "I am sorry, My Lord, but I am unsure. The unspeakable with whom I was speaking would not elaborate, and I felt it wise not to press."_

_ "Undoubtedly," he murmurs, knowing it was only the truth. The importance of his spies in the Ministry was not to be underestimated, regardless of how critical he now feels obtaining the entire prophecy is. It will not do to have his servant discovered amongst them. "What _can_ you tell me?"_

_ "Only what I have said before—the subject of the prophecy is the only one who may safely remove the orb. Anyone else who attempts to do so will be driven insane by the enchantments."_

"The one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord…"_ Technically, the Dark Lord _has_ been mentioned in the fragment of which he is aware. Did that then mean that he is able to remove the orb himself, or is the subject the only one with the right to do so?_

_ Calm. Patience. Prudence. This matter will take more study. More planning. It will not do to rush in without due consideration and activate the magic protecting the orbs. Careful deliberation will be required._

_ "If I may, My Lord," the Death Eater continues, breaking his thoughts, "you have a servant in Azkaban who would likely be able to tell you more of what you seek."_

_ "_That_ matter does not concern you," he says. "You had best focus on the tasks I have entrusted to you—I do not wish for your cover at the Ministry to be compromised."_

_ "Of course, My Lord," responds the Death Eater._

_ "I think we must proceed under the assumption that I cannot touch the orb," he muses, half to himself. "And if I cannot, then the only one who can is…"_

* * *

Harry jolted awake.

Confused, he peered around, seeing the still-sleeping forms of his dorm mates huddled under their blankets. A glance toward the window revealed blackness of the Scotland night. It could not be later than perhaps two in the morning.

Groaning, Harry pulled himself upright, and slumped on the bed with his face buried in his hands. What a perfectly dreadful night! Sleep had been a long time coming, his rest had been fitful, and the appearance of the Dark Lord in his dreams had been the final indignity.

What was Tom Riddle up to now? This word of a prophecy, protections which would drive a man insane, and a clearly plotting Dark Lord was discomfiting. If only Harry could have stayed asleep a little longer—perhaps he would have been able to hear what Voldemort was planning. It was frustrating.

Sighing, Harry looked around at the others before he once again hunkered down into his bed. The Headmaster would need to know about this new development, obviously, but given the time, Harry would attempt to sleep again. Surely it was not critical enough to wake Dumbledore in the middle of the night.

Though his mind would have worked over the problem for some time to come, Harry's fatigue was enough that he soon slipped into the blissful embrace of sleep. And if his sleep was still somewhat fitful and restless, at least it was not invaded by Dark Lords and their minions.

* * *

The next morning, Harry left Gryffindor tower before any of his friends had awakened; the fact that it was a Saturday meant that most students would be sleeping in that day, though likely not too late. It was a Hogsmeade day, after all. And though Harry was not precisely avoiding everyone else, he knew that his generally tired demeanor would raise questions and he wanted to discuss the dream with Dumbledore before deciding whether it should be shared with his friends. Besides, some time with the headmaster would help him wake up and appear more like his normal self.

Knowing the man's habits to a certain extent, Harry found him in the Great Hall at breakfast and, after grabbing a few bites to eat, Harry approached him and requested a few moments of his time. It was not long after before Harry was seated in the head's office across the desk from his mentor, explaining what had happened the night before.

As the explanation wound down, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together, deep in thought. Harry thought he detected a glimmer of understanding on Dumbledore's face as he was explaining his experience, but whatever it had been was gone in an instant, replaced by the expression of contemplation.

"What does it mean, sir?" Harry asked after enduring a few moments of silence.

Dumbledore started and peered at him—Harry had the distinct impression that the man had forgotten all about his presence. He smiled in his congenial manner, obviously trying to help Harry feel at ease. "The Hall of Prophecy, you say. And Voldemort was asking for information about one of the prophecies."

"Yes, but he seemed to think that one of the prophecies was about him too," Harry responded. "If it was about him, wouldn't he be able to remove it?"

"No Harry," replied the headmaster, "though that is a very good question. Just because one is mentioned in a prophecy does not make the prophecy about them. If the prophecy the Dark Lord is interested in is specifically about someone else, and only mentions Voldemort, then he will not be able to remove it."

"He did think that he had to be cautious about it. He thought he would have to study it more before taking any action. He seemed to think that there was someone else who could remove it, but I woke up before I could find out who it was."

Leaning forward, Dumbledore rested his elbows on his desk and he gazed at Harry, who felt more than a little uncomfortable at having the professor's attention on him with such intensity. "Harry, the Dark Lord may have information about a specific prophecy, but you must not think about it. It is good that you brought this information to me as I may make some attempt to find out what he is searching for, and if necessary, prevent him from doing so.

"I must warn you," Dumbledore continued sternly, "not to take anything you hear through your connection to the Dark Lord at face value. If he is aware of the fact that you visited him in your dreams, he may try to trick you, hoping that you would act rashly. He can use this to hurt you, Harry, and it is not something you can take lightly. You must not respond to him in any way, or give him any reason to suspect that you are hearing his thoughts. And above all you must not be goaded into falling into a trap. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," Harry responded automatically.

"Good." Dumbledore once again leaned back and his eyes lost their focus in his concentration. "Remember that you are still young and though you are very mature, that there are things about the world which you still do not know. Please approach me with any questions you may have, and I will do my best to answer them"

Once again Dumbledore's eyes focused on Harry, causing him to feel a little uncomfortable. "For now, I believe this is something about which you do not need to concern yourself. Let me handle it."

"I understand," was Harry's reply. There was nothing he could do about it, after all, and he trusted the headmaster—Dumbledore would not lead him astray.

"I do have one more question for you. Is this the first such occurrence of seeing Voldemort in your dreams?"

Harry ducked his head in embarrassment. "No sir."

But Dumbledore's countenance was not so stern as Harry would have thought. "I understand it can be difficult, Harry. You want to be responsible for your own life and feel like you have some control. I was not unlike you as a young man.

"However, as we are dealing with the Dark Lord and his minions, I would ask you to trust me and tell me of any other instances where you overhear what he is thinking. Not only can this help us gain critical information, but as I stated, I am concerned that Voldemort may try to use this seeming… connection for his own purposes."

"It doesn't happen very often," Harry was quick to say. "Only on occasion, and often when he is really angry or happy."

"That may very well be," replied Dumbledore. "But he may become aware of you and seek to use it for his own gain.

"Now," Dumbledore continued in a kindly voice, "why don't you tell me about these other experiences?"

The next hour was spent in earnest conversation with Harry speaking of the times he had seen Voldemort in his dreams, and Dumbledore offering advice and guidance to the young man. He particularly focused on the dream Harry had had the previous year, and the figures who had appeared in that dream, though he made no comments about what any of it meant. The experience was somewhat draining for Harry and by the time he was finished he felt even more tired, though somewhat relieved at having unburdened himself to a sympathetic ear.

At the end of it, Dumbledore dismissed him, admonishing him to enjoy his day in Hogsmeade with his friends. But he once again encouraged Harry to come to him whenever he had any similar experiences in the future. "Remember, Harry, to always come to see me if you find Voldemort in your dreams. It may be that at some point we will be required to act in order to close this link between you and Voldemort. Let me think about it for a time."

"I understand, sir," Harry dutifully replied before he stood and exited the office.

The frustrating thing about Dumbledore was that he played his cards very close to the vest, Harry mused. It was not that he was second guessing the Headmaster—Dumbledore had fought the good fight for longer than Harry had been alive, and Harry knew the man deserved his respect. It was more that he wished that he would be considered more of an adult, and worthy to be trusted as such.

Sighing, Harry wandered through the hallways of the school for some time, thinking on his dream and the discussion with the Headmaster. He did not return to the common room until quite a bit later, and when he did, he brushed off all questions about where he had been or what he had been doing. He needed to sort things out in his own mind before he was ready to talk about anything which had occurred. Instead, he insisted that the friends leave for Hogsmeade immediately—all the easier to avoid questions he did not want to answer.

* * *

In another part of the country, Jean-Sebastian Delacour sat in the study of the Ambassador's Mansion, scowling at everything and nothing all at once. The previous week had not been a good one, regardless of the fact that that blasted woman was now gone from Hogwarts, never to return. The situation in England, though Voldemort had as yet made no overt moves against the government, continued to deteriorate, completely due to the fact that the Death Eaters, he was certain, were preparing for an all out conflict, while the Minister continued to do nothing.

The thought of Fudge in particular caused the ambassador to clench his hands into fists of rage. To Fudge, Voldemort was dead and gone, never to return. The Dark Lord had been proven to be dead most conclusively, the man averred. He would not return and the stories told by Dumbledore and Potter were nothing more than scare tactics designed to destabilize the government and consolidate more power into their own hands. The fact that one of the two wizards he accused of making a play for power was only fifteen years of age did not faze the man in the slightest. His paranoia was beyond belief.

The worst part of it was that he would not even do anything based on the possibility that Harry was telling the truth. No investigations were being conducted—though in truth Jean-Sebastian suspected that Madam Bones was keeping her eyes open, given what he knew of her—the Auror budget had not been increased, and there was a sense of complacency about the man which Jean-Sebastian found infuriating. With this much of a head start, it would be very difficult to defeat Voldemort and his forces with out much hardship, pain and death.

And it was this environment that particularly worried him, especially when it came to the safety of his family. He would much prefer that Apolline and Gabrielle had stayed in France at the castle where it was safer, but though he had raised the possibility of their return with Apolline a number of times since their arrival, she stubbornly refused to see reason and insisted that she would not run from the danger to which her husband and eldest daughter would continue to be exposed. She even offered to send Gabrielle back, but refused to leave herself.

Of Fleur, Jean-Sebastian was only mildly concerned. Fleur was an adult, and a very competent witch in her own right, and she had Harry and rest of his friends to back her up, not to mention being behind the most impressive set of wards in the country at Hogwarts. And though the mansion appeared to be secure, and well protected with a number of highly trained Aurors assigned to their protection detail, Jean-Sebastian worried that it would not be enough should Voldemort decide that the Delacours had become a serious threat to his plans.

The fireplace in Jean-Sebastian's study flared, and Dumbledore's face appeared in the green flames. "Ah, Jean-Sebastian, may I step through?"

Thinking uncharitably that Dumbledore only wanted to speak when he had bad news, Jean-Sebastian gave his consent, and waited until the aged Headmaster stepped through.

"There has been a development," Dumbledore stated without preamble when he arrived in the study.

Jean-Sebastian wearily waved his guest to a chair, before sitting down himself and massaging his temples. "Can I assume that this news of yours is not something I would wish to hear?"

A chuckle met his cynical and somewhat petulant statement, prompting Jean-Sebastian to glare at the headmaster. "This negativity is most unbecoming, Jean-Sebastian," Dumbledore admonished. "Surely the situation is not that dire yet."

"_You_ try talking some sense into Fudge," Jean-Sebastian growled in response. "His willful obtuseness and his inability to see reason is amazing and infuriating all at once."

"But you forget, Jean-Sebastian," said an amused Dumbledore, "I have been dealing with the man virtually the entire time I've been Chief Warlock. I assure you that I am very familiar with the Minister's quirks.

"However, that is not why I am here today," Dumbledore continued in a more solemn and serious tone. "Harry came to me this morning with a matter of some concern. I believe you should know of it."

Proceeding from there, Dumbledore laid out the entirety of his conversation with Harry, concisely and without embellishment. And though Jean-Sebastian felt a little sick at the thought of having such an insane despot roaming around in Harry's head, he concentrated on what Dumbledore had to say. Harry, no doubt, was very used to the Dark Lord's interference in his life, and though Harry was, by Dumbledore's account, worried about the insight he had gained this morning, he was likely much more accepting of the situation than Jean-Sebastian could be at the moment.

"So, he's after the prophecy."

"I believe he is," confirmed Dumbledore. "It was inevitable that he eventually would turn his attention to it. By now, he must have realized that he does not have the prophecy in its entirety, and I believe that we can his less than aggressive actions since his return to that lack of knowledge. His failure to kill Harry at the end of the third task must have made him more cautious."

Sitting back in his chair, Jean-Sebastian directed a long look at the Headmaster, wondering what the man knew but was not sharing at this time. Yes, the thought of the Dark Lord seeking the missing part of the prophecy was troubling, but at the moment, Jean-Sebastian was much more concerned about the fact that Harry had been able to witness him in his dreams at all. It was this aspect which he focused on.

"Why was Harry able to see Voldemort at all?" Jean-Sebastian asked. "_That_ is the more troublesome development in my mind."

"I am uncertain," replied Dumbledore, frowning. "It appears as though Harry has some sort of… connection, for want of a better term, with the Dark Lord. He has always had strong reactions when in proximity to Voldemort, though until this morning I was unaware of the fact that he has seen Voldemort in his dreams. The silver lining in all of this is that Voldemort does not seem to suspect that this connection exists."

Jean-Sebastian scowled. "That's hardly a silver lining. He could become aware of it at any time."

"Perhaps. If Harry does nothing to betray himself and does not go trying to exploit the connection while he is awake, the Dark Lord should remain oblivious and the situation should remain as it is."

"Do you think he should be taught Occlumency to close the link?" asked Jean-Sebastian after a moment's thought.

Dumbledore pursed his lips and his eyes unfocused for a moment. "Not at this time," he answered at length. "For now Voldemort does not seem to be aware of it, and if Harry were to learn Occlumency, he may sense a block he was not aware existed. Occlumency training may become necessary, but for now I suggest we leave it be."

"And what of the globe? Is it safe?"

"For the time being, the globes are protected. Voldemort's source was correct in that the globes are protected by extensive enchantments which will prevent him from simply removing them."

"So Voldemort cannot touch them?"

"In a word—no," said Dumbledore. "It is not enough for a person to simply be mentioned in the prophecy. The prophecy has to be about them, or they will not be able to remove it.

"In the future I cannot say. It is possible that Voldemort may find some way to circumvent the protections. However, I do not believe we need to concern ourselves with that eventuality for some months—it would take him a great deal of time to do so, and it's not as though he can move about freely in the Ministry."

Absorbing all that Dumbledore had said, Jean-Sebastian considered the situation and the fact that Harry was beginning to be pulled ever tighter into the Dark Lord's web. Events were building toward a confrontation, and knowing what he did about the prophecy and Harry's ultimate fate in the coming struggle, Jean-Sebastian was becoming convinced that they would need to prepare for that showdown.

Beyond that, Jean-Sebastian had begun to experience a steadily growing feeling that Harry should have been told exactly what was happening in his life. He _deserved_ to know.

"Headmaster," Jean-Sebastian began slowly and deliberately, "I think that with this most recent development that Harry needs to be told of the prophecy."

Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore scratched his beard in some thought. "I believe that it is still too early to worry Harry with this knowledge, Jean-Sebastian. Harry is still young—too young to carry the burden of the entire world upon his shoulders."

"I think you may be putting a little too much stock in this prophecy, Albus."

"While I would have, at one time, tended to agree with you, I firmly believe in the accuracy of true prophecy. I would like to give Harry a little more time to mature and grow before sharing this information with him."

Jean-Sebastian was silent for several moments, thinking of all that Dumbledore had said. It _was_ a substantial burden for a young man, but Jean-Sebastian also knew in his heart that to keep it from Harry was not only unfair, but perhaps even dangerous. He was uncertain from where this feeling originated, but he was certain it was the truth.

"Dumbledore, I understand you have Harry's best interests at heart," Jean-Sebastian spoke in a very soft tone of voice. "But I believe he needs to know. He is mature and competent, and he deserves to know the truth of why this insane wizard has fixated upon him.

"During the summer, I promised Harry and my daughter that I would not withhold any information from them, and immediately after I broke my word when you told me of the prophecy. I cannot in good conscience delay much longer."

"I suppose you cannot," Dumbledore responded with a sigh. "However, I would urge you to keep silent a little longer. We shall choose the best time to tell Harry everything—I don't want to burden him any more than is needed."

"Very well," said Jean-Sebastian. "But we cannot wait long. Very soon we will have to tell him, and if you do not, then I will."

With this statement, their conversation was over. Dumbledore bid Jean-Sebastian farewell and left to return to Hogwarts, leaving Jean-Sebastian alone with his thoughts. With this new knowledge, they could not be any lighter than they had been before Dumbledore's arrival.

* * *

For Harry, the next week could not pass swiftly enough. Though the dream of Voldemort and the information it imparted left him somewhat out of sorts for several days, a new and exciting diversion soon took over and all Harry's attention was focused toward this new goal. The next Saturday was to be Gryffidor's first Quidditch match of the year, and as it was to be against Slytherin, it heightened his sense of expectation and excitement. And this did not even touch on the fact that Fleur was a part of the team, though she would likely not play at all. Slytherin was their most difficult opponent, after all, and Angelina would wish to field their best team with the best chance of winning.

To be honest, Harry was nowhere near the Quidditch freak that many assumed him to be—certainly nothing next to Ron who often could not be turned from the subject. It was more the excitement, the roar of the crowd, and above all, the ability to fly, which Harry loved more than anything else. Still, the competition was welcome, and the ability to rub the little Pureblood's face in the fact that he had never managed to catch the snitch against Harry was not unwelcome either. Win or lose, Malfoy did not have the talent to beat him to the snitch, unless the golden ball appeared right under his nose. And even then it might be a close thing.

Harry chuckled a little under his breath at his own hubris and confidence, knowing that it was not exactly an attractive character trait, while also understanding that in this case, it was entirely the truth. As with many other things, Malfoy's talents as a seeker were grossly exaggerated in his own mind. Harry had the superior broom and the superior skills—he was supremely confident in his ability to beat the blond ponce.

Glancing around the table, Harry gauged that no one had been paying attention to his introspection, nor his sudden quiet laughter. The library was quiet on a Friday night, with only a few tables occupied, mostly by seventh years, focused as they were on their NEWTs at the end of the year. Hermione's table was crowded as all the friends had settled in for a bit of late evening study, and though their ages and personalities were disparate, Harry felt the heady feeling of camaraderie which had not always been present in his life, even since he had come to Hogwarts.

Ron and Hermione were, of course, mainstays; their friendship had endured through all of their adventures, not to mention the discord sown by Harry's inclusion in the tournament the previous year. And Fleur, though new to Harry's circle, and admittedly only present because of the enactment of the betrothal, had quickly become an integral part of Harry's life and wellbeing. Neville had always been there, though somewhat separate. Now he was an insider to their group, and a welcome one at that. Still shy and somewhat awkward at times, Neville had nonetheless grown in many ways, and Harry valued his calm and rational demeanor. And though both Luna and Ginny were a year younger than everyone else at the table, they were no less valued as friends. Luna's spacey personality and tendency to talk about fantastical creatures was now looked on as a personal quirk, rather than an overt oddity, and Ginny, while Harry did still catch her peering at him longingly at times, was now comfortable in his company, and her sense of fun and sunny personality were appreciated.

The final three at the table, Harry reflected, were very recent additions, though quickly becoming an integral part of the group. Susan Bones, though not intimate with the rest of the circle, had always been known to be friendly and open, and her abilities and knowledge, not to mention her Hufflepuff loyalty, were now accepted by all of Harry's friends. The other two, though, were so unlikely, that a few weeks ago, Harry would have laughed if told they would even be sitting at the same table without a frigid drop in temperature as a result.

The six Slytherin entries into the club had fit in from an ability standpoint, but had, for the most part, continued to be aloof from the rest of the club. The exception, however, was the two fifth year girls, who had gravitated towards Harry's circle in defiance of any expectation, or any protestations by the rest of their house, if any such existed. Harry's original impression of the two girls appeared to have been spot on—Tracey Davis was rather chatty once she felt at ease with the company and Daphne, though certainly much more reserved, was friendly and outgoing. They were still very much in the formative stages of their inclusion in the group and their friendship with the group members—a few weeks, after all, did not a lifelong friend make. But they were certainly making progress, and their friendliness and their competence at once made them welcome members of their little clique.

The reaction of Harry's friends to their presence was varied. Fleur still held them at arm's length to a certain extent, likely in part because she did not know them, and in part because of her knowledge of many British Purebloods' opinions of her. Neville seemed to take their presence in stride, and while Hermione was at times as cautious of them as Fleur was, she seemed to have found somewhat of a kindred spirit in Daphne. Daphne was in all the same elective courses as Hermione, and had even begun to take part in Harry's ongoing tutoring sessions in Ancient Runes, much to Harry's surprise.

But perhaps the most astonishing response of any of his friends was Ron. Ron had spent the first few study sessions with the Slytherins grumbling at their inclusion, though he had enough tact to try to hide it. Tracey responded in kind, distrusting him and his well-known abhorrence of Slytherins, and generally refusing to talk to him. Daphne simply ignored him.

Within a week, however, Harry was amused to find out that Ron's grumbling had largely stopped, and his attention toward the black-haired Slytherin had begun to become noticeable. Ron, never really subtle about much of anything, appeared to be captivated by the young woman—who was very attractive—and though Daphne had certainly noticed it herself, she had never called him on it, or given any reaction to his admiration whatsoever. She merely changed her treatment of him to mirror how she treated everyone else—that of an acquaintance becoming a closer friend—once the evidence of his obvious disdain had disappeared.

It was an unlikely circle of friends to be certain, but Harry was beginning to value each and every one of them. Having this many people in his group of friends was an alien concept to Harry, as he had never had any friends as a child—due, of course, to Dudley's influence—and had spent most of his time since coming to Hogwarts with only two close friends. He found that he was truly enjoying the experience. And though some would say that Daphne and Tracey were still too new to truly trust, Harry felt that he could do so; his senses told him they were trustworthy, and he simply had a hunch that they were true friends. It was a heady feeling.

"Harry!"

The sound of an exasperated voice startled him out of his introspection and he turned his head, noticing Hermione's stern expression.

"What?"

A few muffled giggles sounded from around the table, and more than one set of eyes rolled in response to his obvious inattention.

"You'll never get his head out of the clouds," Neville said with a snigger. "At least not until after the Quidditch match tomorrow."

"That's the way it should be," said Ron with a grin. "We want our star seeker to concentrate on the match, you know. And come to think of it," he continued with a sly glance at the two Slytherins, "it will be much worse tomorrow after Gryffindor pastes Slytherin."

"Oy!"

"Hey!" the two Slytherins protested at almost exactly the same time.

"Come on," Ron scoffed. "You don't think Malfoy will actually catch the snitch tomorrow, do you?"

"I'll have you know that our chasers and beaters are well able to overcome such a… disappointment at seeker," was Daphne's prim response.

"And besides," Tracey continued with a smirk and a sly glance at Ron, "I've heard that Gryffindor's keeper makes Malfoy look positively competent."

"Oy!" It was Ron's turn to protest.

The two Slytherin girls just grinned at Ron, though to Harry it was not much of a laughing matter. Ron was capable as a keeper, but sometimes suffered from confidence issues—even though this discussion was not intended to be one of malice, he sensed, he was still worried that Ron would take it to heart and lose his confidence for the upcoming match.

"Nah," Neville came to the rescue. "Malfoy takes bragging without being able to back his words up to a new art level. We've got nothing to worry about."

Ron appeared to be taking it all in stride. With Neville's declaration, he leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head, smirking at the Slytherins all the while. "Too right, mate. And besides, with the ponce at seeker, and because your house has a less then stellar shot at winning—and now that you have Gryffindor friends—maybe you should switch allegiance and cheer for Gryffindor."

"_That_ will be the day," said Tracey with a snort. "Cheer for Gryffindor? I'm happy cheering for my own house team, regardless of blond and brainless, thank you."

"But you'd have so much better chance of being happy with the outcome," said Harry, getting in on the teasing.

"That's beside the point," said Daphne. "House unity may not go much further than Quidditch, but _that_, at least, is sacrosanct. Can you imagine the outcry in the Slytherin dungeons if we openly cheered for Gryffindor? It would almost be as though the Holyhead Harpies entire fan base suddenly defected and start cheering for the Chudley Cannons!"

"Hey, what's wrong with the Cannons?" Ron protested.

"Other than the fact that they've never won anything?" Daphne retuned incredulously.

"Nothing is wrong with Chudley," said Tracey with a straight face, though the twitching at the sides of her mouth almost gave her away. "We're trying to illustrate a point here. The club is nothing. Even a hint of us cheering for Gryffindor would give Malfoy all he needed to go after us, _and_ have the backing of the house."

"Suit yourself," said a mollified Ron with a shrug and an evil grin. "Don't say we didn't warn you."

The banter ratcheted up and the friends began discussing which house truly had the best team was this year. Hufflepuff, having lost Cedric Diggory the previous year, was not expected to do well at all, but that did not prevent Susan from getting into the discussion, while Luna, the only Ravenclaw, was not really interested in Quidditch. Given the rest of the table was comprised of Gryffindors, with Daphne and Tracey being the only Slytherins, the Gryffindors shamelessly used their numbers to claim that theirs was the best team.

Partaking in the conversation only peripherally, Harry sat back to watch his friends as they teased each other back and forth. This friendship and being part of a group definitely had its benefits, he decided. It was what he would have had, had he not grown up with the Dursleys. Hopefully, the friendships he had formed here would last for a lifetime.

* * *

By the time the weekend rolled by, the Gryffindor team felt fully prepared and ready to take on their arch rivals, confident in their ability to not only win the game, but that a win would almost certainly vault them onto the fast track to secure the Quidditch and house cups that year. Slytherin had always been the main competition—the two houses together had won more than three quarters of the Quidditch Cups since the inception of the Quidditch Cup more than five centuries earlier. This year would likely be no different, though Ravenclaw would certainly be no pushover. Unfortunately, though, the assessment of the Hufflepuff team the previous evening was likely spot on—Cedric had given them a chance to win with his play at seeker, but without his steadying presence, Hufflepuff would likely find itself completely overmatched.

As Harry sat in the locker room before the match, he only half listened to Angelina's pre-game pep talk. The strategy was simple enough, and as his job was to catch the snitch, a lot of what was said really did not pertain to him. Normally, part of the strategy would be for the beaters to distract the opposing seeker in addition to their normal activities against the other team's chasers, in an attempt to ensure your own seeker was the first to spot the snitch. In this game the decision had been for the beaters to ignore Malfoy altogether, and concentrate instead on the opposing chasers, partially to help Ron as much as possible, and partially because they did not truly see Malfoy as a threat. It was not uncommon to utilize such a strategy when the opposing seeker was not particularly skilled, but Harry could only chuckle at the thought of how Malfoy would act if he knew of their game plan.

Instead of the game, Harry considered the Malfoy heir. Draco seemed to have been on a slow burn ever since the day of Dumbledore's first defense class. Surprisingly he had said very little directly to Harry or any of his friends since then, but on his looks alone the boy could almost be charged with murder. He had gone from being more of a nuisance than a true enemy, to being a dangerous enemy, regardless of what Harry thought of his capabilities. He would bear careful watching.

"Harry!" a voice from his side hissed. "Pay attention!"

Glancing at his betrothed, Harry winked at her. "Don't worry, Fleur. I know the game plan."

"Maybe so, but you really should pay attention to what the captain is saying."

Smiling, Harry shook his head slightly, and focused back on Angelina who was wrapping up her remarks. She had apparently noticed the quiet exchange between the two, but other than a frown, she said nothing to them directly.

Soon, the Gryffindor team filed from the room and, mounting their brooms, soared out into the stadium to the roar of three quarters of the crowd. Slytherin, with all their bully tactics and braggadocio was not well liked, even by Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Generally the three houses cheered for each other when playing Slytherin, leaving the snakes outnumbered, not that they particularly cared.

"And here comes the Gryffindor team," the voice of Lee Jordan rang out over the stadium. "Led by the lovely Angelina Johnson, Gryffindor has to be considered the favorite for the Quidditch Cup this year, the entire team—with the exception of Ron Weasley, the new keeper—having been together for four years. Or it would have been four years, had the faculty not broken our hearts and cancelled Quidditch last year."

"Jordan, if you don't mind," a muffled Professor McGonagall's voice broke in to the seventh-year's comments.

"Of course, Professor."

Harry grinned—it was far from the most outrageous statement Lee had ever made during a Quidditch match.

It was a perfect day for Quidditch. The sun shone in the sky, illuminating the brightly colored stands and warming the air to the point where the Scotland afternoon was merely chilly, rather than the bone-chilling frigid temperatures in which Harry had played in the past. The warmth of the day also seemed to be an omen, though Harry almost laughed at his own fanciful turn of mind. Why the bright and sunny weather should favor Gryffindor any more than Slytherin was debatable.

Soaring to a point high above the pitch, Harry watched as the two teams took their positions on their own ends of the pitch. Across from Harry, Malfoy also took his position, his eyes drilling holes in Harry's armor, as usual. Harry merely smiled insolently at him, and peered about the stadium, plotting his strategy for finding the elusive golden ball.

A moment later, Madam Hooch began the match, and Harry watched as the Gryffindor chasers immediately gained control of the quaffle.

"And the game is under way! Johnson controls the quaffle, passes to Spinnet, back to Johnson, over to Bell who swoops in and scores!"

The roar of the crowd echoed out over the stadium and Harry, caught up in the emotion, pumped his fist in response to the quick Gryffindor tally.

A movement out of the corner of his eye prompted Harry to bank sharply to the right on instinct, as Malfoy swooped through the space Harry had just occupied. Harry was then forced to dodge in incoming bludger, hammered in his direction by one of Malfoy's beefy bodyguards. Though the Gryffindor beaters were going to ignore Malfoy, it obviously did not mean that Harry would receive the same treatment from the Slytherin beaters. Harry soared in a wide arc, and turned to face Malfoy, who once again charged him, an expression of grim determination mixed with loathing adorning his face. Harry directed an insolent leer at the Slytherin seeker—if that was the way Malfoy wanted to play it, Harry would certainly oblige him.

Thus began a game of cat and mouse between the two seekers. Malfoy appeared to put very little effort into finding the snitch, instead seeming intent upon knocking Harry from his broom. Between Malfoy and the beaters, Harry was kept very busy avoiding their attacks, though he devoted as much time as he could to find the snitch. In between his opponents' attacks, Harry also led Malfoy on a merry chase, feinting and diving, and taking a few runs at the Slytherin himself. Through all of this, Malfoy continued in his tactics, his determination never slipping.

While Malfoy and Harry, with the assistance of the Slytherin beaters, continued to play their game, the Gryffindor chasers continued to perform as a well-oiled machine, quickly racking the score up on their less experienced opponents. Harry was able to get a general sense of how the game was proceeding, though the specifics continued to elude him. Periodically, phrases would come to him as Lee continued to call the game.

"…Warrington is hit by a glancing blow! That will leave a mark…

"…and Weasley let in another one, which perhaps he should have stopped…

"…Johnson passes to Spinnet…

"…Pucey passes to Warrington, who… oh that's got to smart! Weasley gets Warrington with a bludger again!

"…and Weasley makes a nice toe save. If only he'd make a few more…

"…perhaps the Gryffindors should sub, if only to get the lovely Miss Delacour into the game…"

"Jordan!"

An hour into the game, Harry had a brief respite, and took the opportunity to look at the scoreboard. Gryffindor was leading Slytherin 120 – 90, and Harry still had no glimpse whatsoever of the snitch.

"What, are you scared, Potter?" Malfoy yelled as he passed close by Harry in another attempt to knock him from his broom.

"In your dreams, Malfoy," Harry yelled back.

The two circled about one another warily for several moments before Harry, feigning excitement, suddenly dove toward the pitch with Malfoy following close behind. Pouring more speed into his Firebolt, Harry surged toward the ground, pulling up at the last moment, almost brushing the ground with his boots. Malfoy, unfortunately, was not quite so lucky, as his panicked attempts to stop resulted in his catching a boot on the turf, throwing his broom sideways. He managed to gain control again before crashing into the ground, and once he righted himself, he once again chased after Harry, a positively poisonous expression on his face.

Harry grinned in response to the cheer which erupted over the stands at the sight of the famous Wronski Feint, though Harry knew that Hermione was probably almost pulling her hair out over the sight. She had always been a little nervous when he pulled his aerial acrobatics and stunts.

Harry's personal game of avoidance with Malfoy continued, though the blond was obviously a little more careful in pursuing Harry—a situation which met Harry's wholehearted approval. In the meantime, the score continued to mount below until it was 260 – 190 with Gryffindor steadily pulling away.

"Hey Malfoy!" Harry jibed, swooping out of range of another of Malfoy's attacks. "You'd better hurry and catch the snitch! Your team will be too far behind if this keeps up!"

Merely snarling in response, Malfoy once again shot at Harry, which Harry avoided deftly, while charging away from the Slytherin and looking down on the pitch below.

"Fine!" he yelled at a pursuing Malfoy. "I thought I'd give you a chance, since you don't have one on your own. I guess I'll just have to catch it myself!"

The Malfoy scion, though, did not give any indication he had heard Harry's words, and Harry reflected that given the speed and the noise of the wind in his ears, that it was entirely possible that he had not.

Their confrontation continued for several more minutes, Harry continuing to dodge Malfoy's attacks and random bludgers, before Harry saw a hint of gold from below. He was careful not to react overtly, and instead dodged another pass by Malfoy and made for the area above the Slytherin keeper. There, hovering behind Bletchley, the Slytherin keeper, was the prized golden ball.

Harry immediately went into action. He turned abruptly and charged Malfoy, who dodged a little raggedly, and then Harry soared high into the air, prompting Malfoy to follow. When he had climbed high enough, he changed tack and sped into a dive toward the pitch. As he had intended, Malfoy, obviously remembering his near miss with the ground was much more cautious in following.

Dimly Harry heard the roar of the crowd as he approached the Slytherin posts, prompting a startled look from Bletchley. Harry ignored him; he roared by, missing the keeper by mere inches, as he reached out and snatched the snitch in his hand, raising it aloft in triumph.

The packed stands erupted into even greater cheers as the game ended, and Harry, smirking at a clearly enraged Malfoy, opened his mouth to taunt at the blond ponce—

WHAM!

Harry nearly pitched off of his broom, righting himself after a moment while keeping hold on the snitch.

"Harry!"

Angelina soared up to him, an expression of concern etched on her face. "Are you all right?"

Looking around, Harry spotted the bludger which had struck him in the back, and the dark of look of glee which adorned Goyle's face.

"It was Goyle," Angelina said unnecessarily. "He hit the bludger at you as soon as he saw you had the snitch.

Harry shrugged and tested his back—it appeared no damage had been done. "Don't worry about it. We won!"

The Gryffindor team took a victory lap around the stadium, before they landed in front of the Gryffindor stands where their housemates were waiting. Hugs and congratulations were freely flowing when trouble of a most familiar sort approached from behind.

"Hey scarhead, you got lucky again, didn't you!"

"I guess I must be really lucky, Bad Faith," Harry shot back. "I seem to have that luck every time I play you."

Malfoy's face turned almost red with rage. "You're a bit cocky for a jumped-up Halfblood."

"And you're cocky for someone who has never caught the snitch against me."

"Maybe we should just leave," said Fleur, nervously looking at the students who had drawn closer to the confrontation.

"In fact," Harry continued, grinning at Fleur, "I figure you must enjoy losing. What is this now? A four year losing streak to Gryffindor, and you've lost to me three times in a row. Your tally would be four if we had played Quidditch last year. Too bad—you could have had another loss to me on your resume!"

In a rage, Malfoy whipped out his wand. "_Locomotor Mortis!_" he screamed, following that up with a stinging hex aimed at Harry's face.

Harry dodged the incoming curses, and pulled his own wand, but was stopped by the arrival of the Headmaster, who had already disarmed Malfoy.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

In a moment the story of what had happened had come out, prompting Dumbledore to fix both antagonists with a stern glare. "I believe I have spoken to you both before about this rivalry of yours. It is getting out of control. If you cannot behave with decorum, I would ask you both to avoid the other from this time forward. If you cannot do that, then perhaps detention for you both would help you see the error of your ways."

Neither spoke—Harry tried to appear a little shameful, though he could not, in truth, say that he espoused any such feelings, while Malfoy had adopted that smug self-important smirk for which he was so famous.

"Now, I will deduct ten points from you each. In addition, Mr. Malfoy, you shall have two more nights' detention due to your starting a fight and casting hexes at another student. If you do not wish to be suspended, I suggest you leave your wand in your pocket from this time forward."

Sneering, Malfoy turned and walked away without any further comment. Harry did not give the boy a second thought—they had won the match, setting themselves up for the rest of the year. Tonight, Gryffindor tower would no doubt be in a celebratory mood and Harry just wanted to savor the win.

"Let's get you cleaned up and head back to the tower," Fleur said, directing him toward the changing rooms.

"Are you offering to help?" was Harry's cheeky reply.

Fleur's smile turned sultry. "If you want."

The beet red color which bloomed on Harry's face prompted laughter from the assembled Gryffindors and Harry, now thoroughly embarrassed, made his way from the pitch, his image of the conquering hero completely destroyed by Fleur's comeback. He couldn't help but imagine, though, his mind turned completely from the completed Quidditch match, just what Fleur was offering, though not she was not truly serious, he sensed. She _was_ a very beautiful woman after all.

Embarrassed all over again, Harry firmly pushed _those_ thoughts away, though his mind did betray him a little as he watched his betrothed out of the corner of his eye. She was, he reflected, very pleasant to watch.

* * *

_Updated 06/21/2013  
_


	25. Chapter 24 – Tournaments

**Chapter 24 – Tournaments**

The days after the Quidditch match were not good ones for the Slytherin Quidditch team, and more specifically for a certain ponce. Owning bragging rights for the annual Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch match was always welcome, and Harry made certain to let Malfoy know _who_ won the match as often as possible. That he never said or insinuated anything overtly did nothing to assuage the blond's anger—the sly smirks and knowing glances alone ensured that he wore a permanent scowl. In this, of course, Harry was joined by Ron, the Weasley twins, Lee Jordan, the three Gryffindor chasers, and just about every other male—or female!—in Gryffindor with any interest whatsoever in Quidditch.

Hermione and Fleur were not impressed as such with his theatrics, but Harry was undeterred and unconcerned. Yes, his behavior was smug and could not be deemed as sportsmanlike—nor was it a particularly likeable character trait—but Harry knew that Malfoy and the Slytherin team would have been so much worse if it had been they who had won the match. And Malfoy deserved it—oh did he deserve it!

The end of the Quidditch match refocused Harry attentions back to the leadership of the defense club, and more specifically, how to cater to the different competence levels of its members. One could not teach seventh-years in the same manner in which fourth-years and younger were taught, after all. Even more, it was often very difficult to determine exactly at what level each of the club members was, and he was wary of not insulting anyone by assuming they were less competent than they actually were.

He was grumbling about this fact the night after the Quidditch match when Fleur made a suggestion, more to stop his whining, he thought, than for any real concern over the problem. Hermione and Fleur had both told him repeatedly that he was over-thinking the issue and that things were progressing well.

"Why don't you have a tournament?"

Surprised, Harry gazed at Fleur, wondering to what, exactly, she was referring.

Fleur rolled her eyes and turned her full attention on her betrothed. "Harry, you keep complaining about the various levels of everyone in the club and how you don't really have a chance to observe everyone while they are all practicing at the same time. If you hold a tournament, not only will you be able to watch everyone in action—and in a simulated combat situation—but the results should tell you something about how everyone is doing."

"That's a good idea!" Hermione enthused. "There are some drawbacks, but it would certainly help."

"It might," Harry conceded. "But how would we handle it? The logistics are a little difficult to pull off."

"It's not like it's a professional tournament," Ron chimed in.

"Ron's right, Harry," said Hermione. "You could do a rough ranking based on what we've seen in the club meetings so far, and then create a tournament tree, and go from there. I think everyone would be excited about it too!"

"We'd have to separate out the younger years," Harry mused. "It wouldn't be fair for… Astoria Greengrass, for example, to have to duel Lee Jordan."

"I'll ask you to leave my sister out of this, Potter," Daphne chimed in with a severe glare, which was compromised immediately by the wink she directed at him.

Harry just waved her off.

"Then hold two separate tournaments, one for the younger years, and one for the older," said Fleur. "You could separate them at fourth year—first through fourth and fifth through seventh."

It did seem like a good idea, and to the amusement of everyone at the table, Harry dove right into it. With the assistance of Hermione's ever-present store of parchment and quills, he immediately set to work drawing up a list of rough rankings of everyone in the club, followed by a rough tournament tree. The difficulty, of course, was coming up with a fair and equitable method of scheduling the matches.

Fortunately, however, and through a strange quirk of fate, they ended up with almost exactly the right number of participants to run a tournament. There were eight fourth-years and under, which made for a perfectly proportional tree, and 34 fifth-years and up, which gave them two extra. Of course, as Harry was planning on refereeing and not participating, he did not count himself, and Fleur also offered to remove herself so she could assist him in judging the skill levels of the participants. This left them with the perfect number.

The rankings were, unsurprisingly, dominated to a large extent with the seventh-years, who were all ranked in the top ten, while the fifth-years largely rounded out the lower tiers. Of course there was some variance, and in certain instances lower years ranked above their higher-year classmates, but that was the general trend. Of course his friends pitched in to assist, though Harry had the final word in the rankings, which generated no little amount of comment from the group of friends.

"Harry, why did you rank me lower than Fred?" George, Harry assumed, protested at one point.

"He's got it right, Gred," Fred responded. "Everyone knows I'm the talented one. You're the inventive one." Fred tapped his finger against his lips for a moment in thought, before saying, "Of course, I'm pretty inventive too, so I guess that makes me the dominant twin."

"So says you," said George with a roll of his eyes. "I'm well-known as being gifted, incredibly handsome, not to mention devastatingly dapper."

"I think someone's got a bit of a swelled head," Hermione said in a stage whisper,

Fleur giggled by her side, while George grumped at having his heroic image ruined. The rest of the group laughed at the interplay.

"What I don't understand, Harry," Hermione spoke up, "is why you've got Cormac and Alice Tolipan ranked so low." Alice was a sixth-year from Ravenclaw house, and a friend of Cho and Marietta.

Harry snorted with some scorn. "Cormac is a braggart who has a higher opinion of himself than anyone has a right to. As for Alice, sometimes I wonder if she even knows which end of her wand is which."

This, of course, earned him a smack from Hermione. "That's not very nice!"

"But he does have a point," said Fleur. "Cormac is all words and no action and while Alice is very nice girl, she seems to have a little difficulty picking up the spells at times."

"What I'm not sure about is why you ranked me lower than Hermione," Ron said.

Harry turned and regarded his friend. Ron was to a certain extent joking, he thought. But at some level, he was also still somewhat insecure.

"These are just rough rankings, Ron," Harry replied. "I think you and Hermione are actually very close, but I ranked her higher because she knows _lots_ of hexes."

"But what about my skill at strategy?" Ron said, his voice almost approaching a whine.

"Ron, an ability to play chess doesn't really have a lot to do with real world strategy," said Fred.

Ron appeared perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"Honestly, Ron," his brother replied again, "each of the pieces in chess has rigidly defined moves, and you can't make it do anything else. Real people and real battle situations are not like that."

"Your skill in chess will not be all that useful in a duel," added George. "You have to rely on your instincts, spell knowledge, ability to cast, among other things, not on knowing which way a piece might move on a chessboard."

Looking thoughtful, Ron nodded. Harry knew that Ron was aware of this, he was also sometimes a little too impressed with his prowess at the board game. A little humility for anyone was a good thing, he decided.

* * *

That Wednesday, the club gathered together in the Room of Requirement as usual, but more than a few looks were directed at the large dueling platform which Harry had placed in the center of the room. There were no comments, however—the participants merely sat in their chairs as usual, and waited for the club to start.

It was a quirk of the room, perhaps—or maybe just how it had been designed—but the room was a little… overeager to give its occupants what they wanted. As a result, Harry had to specifically narrow the request to include only himself, and to further limit the room's changes to oral requests for the course of the evening. Otherwise, the platform might disappear, to be replaced with who knew what, and likely at a most inopportune time.

When Professor Flitwick arrived, Harry was reminded exactly how excitable the little professor truly was. Upon hearing of their plan to have a tournament that week, he immediately launched into some stories about his time as a professional dueler, and began dispensing advice, not only with respect to how to gain the upper hand on an opponent, but also how to referee a match properly.

"You must give clear instructions from the beginning, Mr. Potter," he had enthusiastically advised. "The rules must be clearly understood if you want to stay in control of the combatants. And be decisive in your decisions as a judge of the match—it is the only way the duelers will respect you. Otherwise, they will argue your decisions until you are ready to hex them to get them to stop."

Now, as the half-goblin professor stepped into the room and smiled at them, Harry could only be amused. His respect for the professor's knowledge and skill, however, was unquestioned. Professor Flitwick was a font of information, and very passionate about his instruction, in more ways than one.

At the appointed time, Harry stood and surveyed the group, noting the looks of curiosity etched on the faces of the assembled—minus those of his immediate group, of course, who knew what was happening that night—not to mention the slight sneer and unfriendly frown which Roger Davies had customarily sent in his direction the past few weeks. Ignoring the suddenly cold Ravenclaw, Harry addressed the club.

"Welcome to everyone. Tonight we have a special activity planned." Harry turned and pointed at the platform. "Tonight, we will have a dueling tournament."

"Trying to remind everyone of your 'prowess' in the Tri-Wizard last year, are you?"  
Roger spoke disdainfully.

Harry ignored him. "This will give us a chance to see everyone in action and tailor our future meetings for everyone's benefit. Hermione?"

At Harry's gesture, Hermione stood and waved her wand. On the far wall a large poster board appeared with a pair of tournament trees marked on its surface.

"We've divided the group into two different tournaments," she explained, using her best lecturing voice, "one for the fourth-years and under, and one with fifth through seventh years. We've roughly estimated everyone's ranking and created the tree accordingly."

Harry once again took over the explanation. "As for tournament rules, we will continue on with the same rules we had in second year." There was more than one grimace from the older students at the reminder of the hapless Professor Lockhart, and his ill-fated dueling club. Harry explained further, "The two combatants will continue until one is unable to continue, either by being magically confined, or knocked unconscious. However, only disabling hexes are allowed—no disfiguring or otherwise injuring curses allowed. Remember, this is a test only."

"Why didn't you tell us about this last week?" Ernie Macmillan demanded.

"Because we only had the idea over the weekend," Fleur responded for Harry.

"Besides," Harry added, "the lack of preparation makes it a better test of everyone's ability. This way, you have to wing it."

Several thoughtful faces appeared in the group at Harry's words, and he smiled with satisfaction. It appeared that everyone, if not precisely looking forward to their duels, was at least coming around to the idea that they would be useful to measure their ability.

Indicating that the club members should find their names on the board, Harry gave them several moments to look over the tournament board. The room was filled with exclamations of where everyone was seeded, or those who voiced concern about who they were facing in the first round. Speculation also ran rampant, many students speaking of their opinion of how a certain match would end up, or how quickly a person would be defeated, among other things.

The speculation, however, was interrupted when a loud voice rang out over the room.

"Why isn't your name on the board, Potter?"

A quick glance at Roger revealed a glare, not to mention a certain self-righteous arrogance—a combination with which Harry was rightly becoming annoyed. Roger appeared more like Malfoy than ever at that moment. But Harry, who was decidedly not intimidated by Malfoy, would not be intimidated by Davies either, regardless of whatever his recent problem was.

"Because I lead the club," Harry replied, never taking his eyes from the Head Boy. "I'll be watching and taking notes on how everyone does. I can use that to help plan future club meetings."

"And I'll be helping him," added Fleur from his side. He noted her intent stare at the Ravenclaw, and wondered abruptly what was going with Roger. Though Roger had never been precisely friendly—being from a different house and year, Harry had never really had much to do with the other boy at all—Harry had never really had a problem with Roger before. His antipathy had only begun in the past week or two. But what was his problem? Nothing had happened between them of which Harry was aware, and the only person in Harry's group who really knew him was Fleur. Had something had happened between them?

Still, that was a matter for another time. Harry trusted Fleur and he _knew_ her—she would never betray him by carrying on with Roger. And there was no reason for Roger to be angry at Harry if Fleur _had_ dallied with him. There must be something else happening of which Harry was not aware.

"I think you just don't want to compete because you know you'll look bad," said the Ravenclaw contemptuously. "You'd show everyone here that you're not what your _legend_ says you are."

"What's your problem, Roger?" asked Harry. "To the best of my knowledge we've never had any kind of disagreement or trouble with one another. Why are you suddenly so hostile? Could it be because Fleur is with me now?"

Roger's eyes flashed dangerously, but he merely snorted scornfully. "I just think you ought to put your reputation where your mouth is. Show your _adoring fans_ just what you're made of. If you're not going to be involved yourself, then this tournament is a farce and I won't have anything to do with it."

A burst of murmurs sounded throughout the chamber as the Head Boy faced off against the leader of the defense club, but Harry ignored it. Professor Flitwick appeared to want to say something at that moment, but when Harry looked at him, he closed his mouth and watched the proceedings closely. Harry was the leader of the club and it was important for him to handle this challenge in his own way. Apparently the professor understood that. The look the Charms Professor directed at Davies, however, hinted at the fact that there was undoubtedly a very pointed conversation in Davies' very near future.

Harry turned his head to gaze at his betrothed, who was herself regarding Davies as though he was a very small and annoying insect. She turned to Harry and reading his question answered, "I can take Roger's place in the tournament."

"What good would that do?" scoffed the Head Boy, but not without a smoldering look at the Veela. His frank stare solved a few puzzles in Harry's mind—the boy was obviously either unhappy that he had been supplanted in Fleur's life, or was unhappy that he had not been given further consideration, and he now held it against Harry. "I'm confident in _your_ competence, Fleur. I want Mr. Boy-Who-Lived here to live up to his own reputation."

"I'll tell you what, Roger," said Harry, "since you'd prefer not to participate in the tournament, I'll let you out of it—Fleur can slide into your place instead. She was my choice for first seed anyway."

A number of disbelieving murmurs caught Harry's attention, along with several audible, "but she wasn't very good in the tournament," type statements which made Harry's blood boil. He was not about to let _this_ sort of talk continue.

"Fleur is one of the most talented and competent witches I have ever had the good fortune to know," he snapped, glaring at those who were questioning his betrothed. "She did very well in the first task, using her abilities to their best advantage. For those of you who do not understand Veela, she was at a severe disadvantage in the second task as it was under water. Veela have a natural affinity to fire, which was obviously suppressed in the lake. And in the third task she was attacked by another champion who was under the Imperius. I challenge any of you to do better."

"It's all right, Harry," Fleur soothed him. "I am not offended."

Harry gazed in her beautiful blue eyes and flashed her a crooked grin. "You don't have to be—I'll be offended in your place." It did not take a genius to note the pleasure in Fleur's eyes at Harry's staunch defense of her.

He turned his attention back to the club. "In any case, you'll be able to see her in action tonight. I'd lay better than even odds that she'll win the tournament."

The members of the summer training group all nodded—they had seen Fleur in action and knew of what she was capable. The rest of the group did not appear to be entirely convinced, but no one said anything further, assuming that Harry would not speak so confidently if he was not certain of what he was saying.

"While this is all very touching, it doesn't address _my_ concern."

Turning back to Roger, Harry regarded him for several moments, identifying the scowl on Roger's face which appeared to be directed at Fleur's hand, which was now resting upon Harry's arm, very familiarly. Very slowly and deliberately, Harry removed the Veela witches hand from his arm and took it in his own, interlacing his fingers with hers, while favoring her with an affectionate smile. Harry had never been a tactile person—the only touches he had received from his relatives growing up had been a cuff when he had been too slow, or Dudley and his gang beating him up. A touch from a beautiful girl, however, was so much different.

Roger, apparently, got the point, as his scowl deepened and he glared at Fleur in an almost accusatory way. There was definitely a conversation with Fleur in the offing, given what he was seeing of Roger's displeasure.

"Fleur can take your place in the tournament, leaving you free to take me on," said Harry. "We'll run through the tournaments as they now stand. Then, if you're up to it, you and I can duel at the end. You'll have the chance to make me 'put my reputation where my mouth is.'"

Roger's smile grew almost feral. "You're on, little man."

Nothing further was said. Harry nodded tightly at Roger and turned to the rest of the group. "Now, let's get this started. We'll have the smaller tournament for the younger group first, then we'll switch to the older years."

"But Harry," said Parvati Patil, "we haven't had a chance to practice or anything."

"What have you been doing attending the club?" Harry asked. "The whole point of having you here is to prepare you for encounters in the real world. If a Death Eater attacks you, I doubt he'll stand aside while you come up with a plan of attack. This is similar. You must improvise."

"I'd prefer not to embarrass myself," Ernie Macmillan grumbled.

"Don't think of it that way," Harry admonished. "Yes this is a tournament. Yes there will be a winner, and half of you will lose your only match. But we're not here to try to embarrass anyone. Look on this as a learning experience instead."

"Sage advice, Mr. Potter," interjected Professor Flitwick. He had approached as Harry was dealing with Davies and the other club members, and was now watching the interaction very carefully. "All of you should remember what Mr. Potter says. I believe he is uniquely qualified to give this instruction, if half of the rumors of his adventures since arriving at Hogwarts are true."

Here he stopped and winked at a red-faced Harry. "And I can tell you that they are not embellished all that much indeed. I for one think that this idea of a tournament is splendid and will be a good test which will show you where you are and how you need to apply yourself to improve. Remember to try your best, but do not be discouraged if you do not win. I myself had to practice for hours every day to gain my skill. It will be no different for any of you."

With that, all protestations ceased and the attention turned toward the dueling platform. The main event was about to begin.

* * *

As there were only eight members of the DA who were fourth year and younger, there would only be seven total matches to determine a champion. Therefore, the first tournament was over very quickly. As the younger members were only in second year (Astoria Greengrass being the lone third-year in the club), they were quickly dispatched by the much more knowledgeable fourth-years, as Harry had expected.

And with fewer participants—and a much greater confidence in how they stacked up—things went more or less as Harry had expected them to. The only true surprise, if it could be called that, was when Colin Creevey defeated Romilda Vane, who Harry had had reversed in their rankings when he drew up the tree. Other than that, he was unsurprised when Ginny defeated Colin in one semi-final, while Luna defeated Greta White in the other, and then Ginny defeated Luna to become the champion of the lower years. Ginny _was_ very handy with her wand, after all, and even her brothers were wary of her infamous Bat-Bogey Hex, not to mention her fiery temper and tendency to hex first and ask questions later.

After the young redhead had wrapped up her match by putting Luna in a body bind, the group cheered, which she accepted as gracefully as she was able, though her red face _did_ almost match her hair. Harry could not miss the looks she was directing at him, and though he was not about to consider her as anything other than a little sister—even if he was not already tied to Fleur—he was more than willing to let her know how skillfully she had performed.

Joining her on the platform, Harry handed her a simple trophy he had had Dobby purchase for him earlier in the week. Hermione had already magically added her name to a plaque on the front of the trophy.

"Our winner!" he shouted, raising Ginny's hand in the manner he had seen done on the television, and especially in the home videos of Dudley's boxing matches. The members of the defense club cheered in response. "Good job, Ginny!"

Raising her hand and waving at the rest of the club, Ginny accepted their congratulations, and she and Harry stepped down from the platform. The second tournament was about to start.

With the older years, Harry was not nearly as confident with his rankings as he had been with the younger students. Not only were there four times as many students to rank, but the mix of years—more than half were fifth-years—made it difficult at times to judge between different club members. As soon as the board had been revealed, he was unsurprised to hear some grumbling due to the placement of some of the members. Cormac had been vocal about the fact that he should be ranked above most of the other sixth-years, though he was in fact seeded below several fifth-years, including Hermione and Ron, though Alice Tolipan—who Harry had noted was _not_ especially skilled with her wand—appeared to accept her ranking with little comment.

Once they started, Harry concentrated on refereeing the matches and looking for the tendencies and skills they had talked about when they had begun planning. Immediately in the first match, Fleur had given a sign of what Harry had confidently proclaimed, by dispatching Lavender Brown very quickly. Of course Lavender, who had always seemed to be much more interested in makeup and boys than her wand, was not the most dangerous of opponents. Regardless, she accepted her defeat with some grace and thanked Fleur for showing her a few things, which Fleur graciously reciprocated with some advice and an admonishment to work hard to improve herself.

In the very next match, Harry's words about Cormac were proven to be prophetic, as he was bounced from the tournament by Michael Corner, who Harry felt was definitely one of the best of the fifth-years. Of course the arrogant prick was less than gracious in his defeat, claiming to all who would listen—no one in other words—that he had gone lightly on Michael, and that he would not even be touched if they were to have a rematch.

Hermione and Ron both survived their first matches, Hermione by taking out Zacharias Smith, while Ron defeated Padma Patil. For the rest of the matches, those Harry expected to win did, though Marietta's victory over Terry Boot was a near thing, and Daphne's defeat of Susan was also by the narrowest of margins. In all, the seventh-years all advanced to the second round, as did most of the sixth-years, with the exception of the aforementioned Cormac McLaggen—who took to pouting on the sidelines with an injured expression of petulance on his face—and Alice, who took her defeat much more philosophically.

It was the second round, however, which generated the greatest surprise of the evening. All of the remaining seventh-years advanced as expected, except for Lee Jordan who was taken down in stunning fashion by Hermione.

As her stunner knocked the affable seventh-year from the platform, a shocked silence descended over the room, and then the club erupted into cheers. Embarrassed, Hermione accepted the acclaim and left the platform to be pulled into a jubilant hug by Fleur. Lee, who rose to his feet groggily after being enervated, acknowledged, somewhat ruefully, that he had taken it easy on Hermione, who he saw as a bit of a younger sister. He would not hear anything of any suggestion that Hermione had won the match due to anything other than her own skill, congratulating her warmly, and promising her that he would not go so easy on her the next time.

There was almost another upset in the last match of the second round, though it would not have been as shocking as Hermione's triumph. Blaise Zabini, who Harry had pegged as having a lot of raw power but not a lot of finesse, was almost able to use his power to defeat Katie Bell. It was only through the girl's excellent tactics and her ability to draw the Slytherin into a trap which had enabled her to prevail. Thus, at the end of the second round, there were six seventh-years still standing, as well as Katie representing the sixth-years, and Hermione as the lone fifth-year still alive.

* * *

Hermione stood at the side of the dueling platform, playing with her wand nervously as she waited for her next chance to duel. Fleur had just defeated Alicia Spinet to move on to the semi-final round, while the next would feature Nigel against Angelina, in what was already being billed as the battle of the Johnsons.

Overall, Hermione was happy with the progress she had made. She had promised herself that she would improve her skills so that she would be able to help Harry, knowing that his propensity to discover trouble would mean that he needed good and competent friends at his back. She was progressing, she thought, though she would not have believed at the start of the tournament that she would be able to best an opponent two years her senior, in age, experience, and training. It felt good, though, to succeed and feel as though she was getting better. She wanted to impress Harry and be able to stand with him, and she felt she was making good progress toward that goal.

As Nigel and Angelina took their places on the platform, she found herself studying Harry as he initiated the match. He truly was coming into his own, she decided, and his competence and manners were only equaled by his humility. He had stood up to Roger in a dignified manner, never throwing Roger's accusations back into the git's face. Instead he had calmly faced his accuser, offering a solution to Roger's concern, and above all, refusing to rise to the bait.

In truth, Hermione suspected that Harry, even as a fifth-year, was likely superior in defense to anyone here, seventh-year or no. Yet Harry was not about to try to aggrandize himself or draw attention to himself. His understated confidence and humility was one of the most appealing traits he could possess—that trait was one of those which made up his character, and one which drew her possibly more than anything else. Well, that and his good looks, his compassion, his willingness to throw himself into danger for others—not that _that_ particular trait did not give her fits at times—his ability to make her feel good about herself at any time…

Who was she kidding? She was in love with her best friend and had been for a long time. She had known it since the summer, but it was becoming more and more obvious that she would never find anyone so compatible with her as Harry was.

_That_, of course, was her dilemma. Harry was taken, and regardless of Fleur's invitation to allow her to have a relationship with Harry too, she was not certain if she could. She had been brought up to believe in the concept of monogamy, and this idea of sharing Harry was alien to her. She had thought about it in the intervening months—at times she did not think she had thought of much else!—but the inability to come to a decision was something which was generally not a part of her personality. And yet, she was still at a quandary.

Glancing over at Fleur, Hermione noted that the French witch was concentrating on the match, knowing that the winner would be her next challenge. Fleur did not seem to be bothered by the thought of sharing Harry with Hermione, and perhaps for her it was not so much of a difficult concept. She had been brought up to know that it was at the very least possible for her, after all. There were times, however, when she caught the French witch looking at them with an almost wistful expression. Hermione thought that she would not have chosen her course if Hermione had not been so close to Harry. If anything, it made Hermione admire her even more for her unselfishness and her determination to do anything to ensure Harry's happiness.

But the fact of the matter was that Hermione still did not know if she could do it—sharing her husband seemed likely to make her… jealous, at the very least, she supposed. It made sense did it not?

"Hermione," a hissing whisper at her side jolted her back to awareness of her surroundings.

She looked around and saw Ron regarding her closely. "Looks like someone's not paying much attention," he jibed, motioning to the contest on the platform.

"I'm facing George next," Hermione responded lamely, as though that explained everything.

"Perhaps," was Ron's dubious answer. "I just thought I'd give you a little advice."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. "Advice?"

"Yeah. George is my brother, you know. I've been at the business end of his wand more times than I'd care to admit."

"And?" Hermione pressed him.

"He's devious, but you already knew that. He'll try to lull you to sleep and then catch you with your pants down, and he's good at it. Just remember that George has a tendency to rely on his shielding more than dodging. You may be able to get a spell through if you cast quickly and overwhelm his shield."

Nodding, Hermione thanked Ron for his advice, noting that the previous match had ended with Nigel Johnson emerging as the victor. Once the applause had died out and Angelina had been revived from a stunner, Harry announced the next match and smiled at Hermione.

"Give it to him, Hermione."

"Oh my," George wailed theatrically, "little Harrikins is giving Hermy some pointers. Whatever shall I do?"

"Don't call me Hermy," Hermione growled at the twin, which earned her nothing more than an insolent grin.

"All right, all right," Harry intervened with a shake of his head. "I don't know how you and your brother can go through life without _ever_ being serious."

"It's all in the mindset," was George's gleeful reply. "Perhaps if you concentrated a little, you could manage it yourself."

Shaking his head, Harry stepped to the center of the ring. "Now, I want a clean fight," he drawled, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "No cheap shots, dangerous hexes, and whatever you do, _be serious!_" he roared, before his wand lit up with a light spell, indicating the beginning of the match.

Hermione immediately went on the offensive, snapping off a stunner and a disarming spell, which George merely grinned at. He allowed them to be absorbed into the shield he quickly cast, while he countered with a body-bind curse, which Hermione dodged. She was not about to be caught with the spell with which she had defeated Malfoy!

Spinning, Hermione countered with a leg-locking hex, followed up by a jelly-legs hex, then ducked out of the way of George's incoming stunning spell. She looked up to see that George had moved to the side, and taken aim at her with a loud disarming spell. Hermione dodged again, almost falling prey to a non-verbal stunning spell which he had slipped in without her noticing.

Hastily conjuring a shield, Hermione allowed George's next two stunners to impact it, noting the fact that the more powerful boy had caused her shield to waver, before she shot off a couple more spells to occupy him, before she stepped up and shouted, "_Avis!_" A noisy blast, followed by a stream of yellow birds shot out of her wand, and then tore across the room directly at George with Hermione's shouted, "_Oppugno!_"

George, however, merely grinned at her and dodged the incoming birds, conjured a metal shield and threw it up into the air where it impacted with most of the birds, causing them to explode and disappear. The remaining few birds were neutralized with a quickly yelled, "_Finite Incantatem!_"

Hermione had not been idle, however, directing several stunners and binding spells while he was occupied, hoping to punch one through his shield. Just as his shield crashed down, however, George dove to the side, evading her last stunner, and coming up firing. Hermione had no time to rue the fact that her spells missed, however, as George immediately came up on a knee and directed three spells at her. She realized too late that the first was intended to get her to move—nothing more than a simple stunner—while the other two were binders, neatly bracketing his stunner. Understanding came too late, as Hermione dove to her left, right into the incoming spell, which quickly wrapped her up in the conjured ropes. She crashed down to the side of the platform, losing her grip on her wand.

Disappointment filled Hermione as she heard Harry declare George the winner of the duel. She lifted her head to see Harry and George approaching her, Harry with a look of sympathy, while George was one of smug satisfaction, mixed with respect.

A quick finite had Hermione back up on her feet, and she stood and retrieved her wand, knowing she had done her best, but still unhappy she had come up short.

George, however, stepped up to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Good match, little sister!"

Wondering what he was talking about, Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, which he merely responded to with an insolent grin. "Oh come on, Hermione—you're almost like a member of the family. You were brilliant! A couple more years of training and you'll be a nightmare to face on the dueling platform."

"He's right," Harry praised, bringing a bit of a blush to Hermione's cheeks. "You did really well up there, Hermione. I'm proud of you."

The club was cheering for the victor, and George turned and executed an extravagant courtly bow, which generated no small amount of laughter. Hermione followed him off the platform, and was surprised to be the recipient of so many well-wishers congratulating her for a well-fought duel.

Philosophically, Hermione turned her thoughts inward, as the next match got under way. She would not win this tournament—not that she had expected to—but she had still made a good showing, and had even managed to win against a student two years older than she was. It was a good showing, she decided. She would not fail. She would always be there for Harry, she decided, with the skills and abilities to help in whatever situation he managed to get himself into. And maybe if she could ever come to a decision, there may be more in her future with Harry as well.

* * *

In the final duel of the day, Fleur stood up on the platform, looking across at her opponent, one Fred Weasley. In true Weasley twin form, the redhead was smirking across at her with an expression of cocky confidence upon his features.

All in all, it had been a good day for Fleur, her presence in the final match a testament to that fact. Her semi-final against the Slytherin Nigel Johnson had not been an easy one, but in the end she had managed to prevail with a flurry of spells, finally catching him with a _Levicorpus_ jinx before summoning his wand to her to end the match. Nigel had been gracious in defeat, congratulating her, though not warmly, and accepting the fact that he had been beaten squarely.

The other semi-final, however, had been more of an exhibition in silliness than a true duel, the combatants being the two Weasley twins, after all. Jelly-legs hexes, some Weasley invented paint spell, along with tickling hexes and the two boys trying to banish each others clothes had been the order of the day. For all that, they had fought with an almost mindless ferocity, demonstrating extreme competence in their battle, regardless of its rather unorthodox nature. Even George's grumbling at being bested by his closest sibling had been good-natured and funny. They would never change.

Standing across from Fleur, however, Fred appeared to be completely focused on the upcoming match, with none of his typical joking nature had been unleashed. It was clear the twin wanted to win.

For herself, Fleur was anticipating the upcoming battle with relish. Win or lose, she thought, she had vindicated the faith in her which Harry had expressed at the beginning of the evening. The warmth in his eyes as he had looked at her told her much about the state of their relationship. It was growing into something Fleur had hoped for ever since being bound to this betrothal.

Roger, though, was a different story. He stood to one side even now, smirking in a haughty and disdainful manner at the rest of the club—primarily at Harry, unless she missed her guess. Fleur still had not told Harry of her confrontation with the Head Boy and the way he had tried to get her to cheat on him, partially because she had not found the right moment, and partially because Roger had backed off and left her alone. She supposed it had led her to feel a false sense of security, and had made the necessity of talking to Harry to become less urgent. Now, however, it was clear that she would have to have that discussion with Harry sooner rather than later, as he clearly suspected that something was up. It would have been better had she said something before this had all come to a head…

For now it was time to clear her mind. She desperately wanted to completely vindicate Harry for his words supporting her. Victory would do that.

Harry stood with his wand held up, just off to the side of the platform, and he glanced at each of the combatants in turn. "Are you both ready?" he queried.

Fleur gave him a tight nod and stood in a traditional dueling stance, knees slightly bent, wand extended in front of her, angled toward the floor. When Fred echoed her motion, the tip of Harry's wand lit up, signaling the start of the action.

Pivoting neatly to the side, and thereby evading Fred's opening sally of a pair of stunners, Fleur erected a shield in front of her, while slicing her wand down, with a jerk, and a non-verbal _Glacius!_ A sudden icy wind sprang up and howled at Fred, but he merely grinned tightly, and sidestepped it, responding by conjuring a bunch of small rocks and banishing them in her direction.

Fleur darted to one side, avoiding the rocks as they sped towards her in a wide swath, diving to the platform to avoid the outside edge of the spray. Unfortunately, her momentum carried her outside the protective influence of her shield. Fred, noticing this, immediately went on the attack, barking out, "_Incarcerous! Stupefy! Stupefy!_"

Recognizing the attack as the one George had used against Hermione, Fleur rolled to the side of the binding spell, coming up on one knee while shouting out, "_Protego!_" The stunner headed her way impacted the shield and disappeared, while Fleur once again moved back toward the center of the dueling platform.

Counting on the fact that she now had dual shields protecting the entire left side of her platform, Fleur positioned herself where she thought they overlapped, ignoring Fred's spellfire for a moment. She used her affinity with fire to raise a wall of flame halfway between them. Then, obscured by the flames, she dove to the right side, rolled, and came up firing, snapping off a quick barrage of stunners and binders, spread out over the width of the platform.

A dull thud from the other side of her wall of flame signaled the end of the match, and Fleur pumped a fist into the air, while allowing her wall of flame to die down. On the other side of the platform, the Weasley twin was struggling against the ropes which held him bound.

A large roar erupted from the club, and Fleur gratefully accepted the congratulations, including and particularly enthusiastic hug from her betrothed. Disengaging from her, Harry grabbed her hand and held it up in the air, to which the club members cheered even louder.

Once the noise began to die down, the generally ebullient mood was heightened even further by Fred's plaintive, "Hey, can someone get me out of here?"

"I think I like him where he is!" joked Ron, sending the room into even further fits of laughter.

Fred, however, merely pouted at being made sport of, though Fleur sensed his response was good-natured. That likely did not preclude revenge in the way of a prank on his younger sibling, she thought. Taking pity on the redhead, Fleur waved her wand in his direction, dispelling the ropes, and allowing the final Weasley to rise to his feet.

Wasting no time at all, Fred rushed up to Fleur and grabbed her up in a great bear hug, lifting her up and twirling her around enthusiastically. "Nice one, Fleur!" he exclaimed when he finally let her down. "You really threw me for a loop with that wall of fire!"

The energetic discussion continued on for several more moments, as Fleur basked in the pleasure of her victory. Clearly, the idea of a tournament had been a complete success, and Fleur did not doubt that it would be repeated again in the future.

Finally, however, Harry held up his hands for quiet, and addressed the milling club members who were gathered around.

"Thank you, everyone, and great work, Fleur!" he shouted, once again inciting the roar of the assembled students. He produced the second trophy, which Hermione discreetly handed to him, and presented it to Fleur, who held it high in the air to the enthusiastic cheers of the club.

"It sounds like the idea was a success!" Harry said when the applause died down. "Let's talk about it for a few moments. First, I'd like to thank everyone for giving it their best effort. I know that it was difficult for some of you, especially since some of the fifth-years had to start out by going up against the seventh-years."  
Fleur noticed a few rueful expressions at that statement, primarily from fifth-years such as Parvati and Lavender, who had been ranked quite low. No one seemed to be upset by the way it had turned out, though—in fact, she thought she recognized a determination to do better on most faces.

"I think we'll start doing more practice duels in the club," Harry continued, "and everyone can practice against others of their own skill level. And the next time we hold a tournament, maybe we'll have three brackets, or just divide everyone up differently."

"That would be a relief," grumbled Lavender. "Going up against Fleur for my first match was not a lot of fun."

Harry acknowledged Lavender's comment with a smile, and a bit of praise. "Maybe not, but you did well, Lavender.

"Anyway, I wanted to talk about what we saw in the matches before we break up. Can anyone tell me what you learned from tonight's duels?"

"They were all very quick," said Terry Boot.

Harry nodded. "Very good. Yes, duels have a tendency to be over very quickly. Throw away any images you have in your mind about epic duelists locked in battle for hours—in practice, a duel is short and decisive. And don't hold back, or you'll give your opponent an opening to finish you off."

"Mr. Potter is right," Professor Flitwick said from the side of the room. "Even in a professional dueling arena, where both combatants are supremely talented and evenly matched, a duel typically lasts less than three minutes."

To the Charms Professor's side, the Headmaster stood, watching the proceedings with some interest, not to mention an unmistakable approval. When he had arrived Fleur did not know, but she suspected that he had seen the final match, which made her feel unaccountably bashful.

"What about styles?" Harry asked, pulling the attention of the group back to him.

"I noticed that a lot of people lost when their shields failed them," said Ron.

"Exactly!" said Harry, thanking Ron for his insight. "As a respected Auror once told me, the best defense against any spell is to be somewhere else when the spell arrives. I think we'll begin to focus on dodging and techniques for moving around in the field of battle. A shield charm can be used very effectively, but it should not be relied on. Remember, a shield will not stop an Unforgivable."

"I also noticed that a lot of people relied more on spells than transfiguration or other tactics," said Susan.

"Very good, Susan," said Harry. "Most of the seventh-years used a mix of conjuration, transfiguration, and other tactics in their duels, but the younger students tended to stick to spells."

"That is partially due to their more advanced work in school, Mr. Potter," said the Headmaster. "That does not necessarily mean that the younger students _cannot_ apply such measures to their tactics. They will, of course, have a much smaller repertoire from which to draw, however, until they become more experienced in their studies."

"Thank you, Headmaster. This is another area we will start to work on. Most of you were surprised that Hermione was able to defeat Lee—sorry for picking on you, Lee," Harry added to the seventh-year.

"It's a good object lesson," said the affable Gryffindor. "Go right ahead."

Grinning, Harry continued, "Hermione was one of the few fifth-years who used an array of battle tactics. It doesn't hurt at all either, that she knows _so many_ spells."

Hermione blushed at the praise yet again, but Harry continued speaking. "_That_ is part of the reason why she did so well. We'll work on that in the coming weeks. Just remember that part of dueling—and fighting in a battle—is being aware of your surroundings, but also creativity and mobility will also assist you."

"A certain amount of raw power doesn't hurt either," Daphne chimed in.

"True," Harry agreed, "but raw power can be overcome by finesse and strategy. Don't assume that simply because you have more available power than another that you will automatically have an edge in a fight."

"Also consider that there is no way to measure a person's magical ability," Dumbledore once again interjected. "We know in a general sense how powerful we all are, but it is also known that a person's power level can fluctuate based on emotion, how rested the person is, and a number of other factors."

Cho Chang hesitantly raised her hand, speaking when Harry motioned to her. "But wasn't Fleur's wall of fire unfair? She used her Veela talent with fire, I assume."

"Certainly not!" Fred objected. "You have to use every advantage in a fight—she disoriented me with that wall, and I never considered the fact that she could fire spells through it."

"That is correct," said Professor Flitwick. "While I would not expect her to make use of some of her… _other_ abilities, anyone here could do what she did. She can do it faster and more efficiently. That is an advantage that she should make use of."

Appreciating the support, Fleur nodded her head. "My affinity to fire is part of my Veela heritage, but it is not dissimilar to what all of you can do. But in a duel, I'd never make use of my allure. If I was fighting against Death Eaters? I'd use any advantage I had."

A general murmur of agreement rippled through the ranks of the club, putting to rest any further comment on the fairness of Fleur's tactics. Harry spent the next few moments going over some of the things he saw from the duels, and dishing out a generous measure of praise for the way they had all fought. He specifically dwelt on the fact that both tournaments had been won by girls, and that the boys should not hold back or automatically assume that they would win if facing a member of the fairer sex.

Fleur was only half paying attention to Harry's words. Instead, she was focused on the side of the room where Roger stood leaning up against the wall, projecting a discontented and angry air.

The meeting was about to break up when his voice rang over the room. "So, are we going to get on with this, Potter? Or are you afraid to duel me?"

The instant before Harry turned to face his antagonist, Fleur thought she detected a dangerous glint in his eye. Harry's ire was clearly aroused.

* * *

_Updated 06/25/2013 _


	26. Chapter 25 – A Fighter and a Lover

**Chapter 25 – A Fighter and a Lover**

"No, Davies. I had not forgotten."

Turning slowly, Harry faced his accuser, one eyebrow lifted in question. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Roger scoffed.

"I just don't see that you have a way to win," said Harry.

Roger's intense glare seemed to bore right into Harry. "Pretty tough words for a little twerp who has been perched on a pedestal all his life. You've never had to do anything to prove you deserve it, and yet you think you'll beat me without any problem?"

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "That's not what I mean," he said, impatient that Roger kept willfully misunderstanding him. "We both know you're a seventh-year and I'm only a fifth. What I mean is that I don't see any way for you to come out ahead in this. If you win, well, you're supposed to since I'm only a fifth-year. If I win, you get humiliated by losing to a fifth-year."

"Oy!" Lee Jordan's voice broke out over the group. "I lost to a fifth-year too!"

His attempt at levity fell a little flat, as most of the club was focused on the showdown between their leader and the Head Boy. A quick glance around him showed very few smiles at Lee's interruption, and that the sentiment appeared to be with him, if the nods and expressions of discontent with Roger's behavior were any indication.

"Ah, but you're forgetting the whole 'Boy-Who-Lived' angle," Roger crowed. "You're not just some ordinary fifth-year."

Harry allowed all of his disdain to seep over his features. "In one minute you decry my fame, and in the next you say you want to profit from it, Roger. Seems to me you want it both ways."

"_I_ didn't come up with this ridiculous Boy-Who-Lived nonsense."

"Neither did _I!_" Harry rejoined. "It all happened when I was a baby, in case you've forgotten. Ask Hermione or Ron or any of my other friends—I don't want this fame any more than I want Voldemort after me."

"You sure don't act like it."

"Maybe you just don't know me."

"Harry," Fleur interjected into the argument, "you will never to convince him. He has made up his mind."

"You might as well get on with this," added Hermione.

A general murmur of agreement rippled through the club members, and Harry acknowledged the girls' points.

"All right then. Fleur, will you referee?"

"I will adjudicate the match."

Turning, Harry noted the approach of the Headmaster and Professor Flitwick, though it was Dumbledore who had spoken. Both were regarding the two combatants with severity, though Harry thought the greater portion of the professors' disapprobation was directed at the Head Boy.

"Are you certain you wish to continue with this?" Dumbledore asked, looking in turn at both Harry and Roger.

Harry shrugged to indicate his complete ambivalence, while Roger, in a softer and much more diffident voice, agreed that they should proceed.

"Very well, then," said the Headmaster. "I will allow it in light of your willingness to continue."

"It's not a bad thing, professor," Harry assured him. "I'm the leader of this club, so it makes sense that I have to prove that I know what I'm talking about."

Dumbledore regarded Harry and smiled. "I dare say that is a good thing in a leader, Harry. However, I cannot say that I approve of the reasons for this challenge, nor do I believe that it is merely to prove that you 'know what you are talking about.'"

The Headmaster's pointed glance in Roger's direction as he said this was missed by no one, though Roger did a credible job of appearing unaffected by the mild rebuke. For Harry it mattered little—his reasons for accepting the challenge were no more and no less than he had stated, and he did not fear the result. At worst, a loss would seem like an inevitability, easily explained by their relative ages and levels of education. A win, however, would cement his ability to lead the club and do away with any further dissention which might arise in the future.

"If you will both take your places, I believe we should begin," Dumbledore prompted. "It is getting close to curfew and I would like you all to return to your dorms before the remaining time has elapsed."

With a glance at the Head Boy, Harry vaulted up onto the platform and turned to face his adversary. Roger sported a Malfoy-esque sneer, clearly pleased with himself at his success in provoking this confrontation. A glance to the side revealed Fleur's discontented glare at her former date, though when she noticed Harry's gaze, she directed a brilliant smile at him, making him feel warm all over. Harry had always thought that Hermione was his biggest supporter; now it seemed as though she had competition in that role.

Harry smiled back at his betrothed, wagging his eyebrows in her direction, to which she responded by rolling her eyes and directing several significant glances at his opponent. _"Concentrate on him!" _she mouthed at him, nodding her head in the Head Boy's direction.

Taking the point, Harry grinned and bowed slightly at her, before pivoting and facing Roger. He peered at the Head Boy for a moment, noting the insolence in his casual stance, which completely belied the expression of anger on his face. Roger had obviously witnessed the exchange and was clearly upset at the feelings the two had conveyed.

"Are you ready to be exposed for a phony?" Roger taunted.

Harry, now certain that Roger's dislike was founded in jealousy, nodded tightly in the Headmaster's direction. "I'm sure the others will judge me for more than what happens in this little fracas."

"Now let's make this a pleasant affair, shall we?" Dumbledore's deceptively mild voice interrupted their conversation and reduced the tension slightly. "It is not considered good form to taunt your opponent. On the other hand, concentrating on your opponent is definitely considered to be good form."

"I suggest you both focus on your spells," Flitwick added.

Harry nodded at the Charms professor and assumed a dueling stance, which Roger immediately copied. The glare was still present on the Head Boy's face, but it was now tempered with a sense of determination. Roger clearly wanted to win this match to vindicate his claims.

"Are you both ready?"

When Harry and Roger both indicated their willingness to begin, the Headmaster's wand lit up with a light spell and the match was on.

Shifting instantly to the offensive, Roger snapped off a couple of stunners, and a banishing spell, trying to knock Harry off the platform and win the duel quickly. Harry merely smiled and sidestepped the attacks, responding with a disarming charm, and two stunners of his own, which Roger blocked and dodged.

Undeterred, Roger continued to attack, throwing an array of stunners, binders, and other offensive spells at Harry, who continually dodged, throwing up shields to augment his defense. Rolling to the side, Harry unleashed his own attacks, focusing on disarming spells and stunners, which Roger deflected or dodged.

The opening attacks thus thwarted, the match settled down into a rhythm of attacks and counter attacks, largely designed by each to take the measure of his opponent and identify weaknesses and tendencies. In Roger, Harry grudgingly had to admit that he faced a formidable opponent. As a Ravenclaw, it was expected that he would be knowledgeable and clever, with an impressive repertoire of spells and a healthy imagination from which to base his attacks. He was competent and clever, and this was clearly the reason why he was Head Boy, as Harry could feel the effects of his assaults and his unwavering determination to prove his point.

He was not, however, so easy to admire in his other attributes, specifically with respect to his insistence on attacking Harry, which appeared to be based on nothing more than jealousy and petulance. Harry had never really had much contact with Roger before the start of the year, and had never truly become familiar with him. He had always appeared somewhat distant in those few instances in which Harry had witnessed his interactions, and though his behavior of late had been downright nasty, he had never shown himself to be especially vindictive or ignorant in nature.

That had all changed with his recent actions towards not only Harry, but to Fleur as well, who truly did not deserve his disdain. Harry was not certain if Roger had simply hidden this facet of his personality or if it had recently emerged, and he did not know exactly what Roger's problem was—though he suspected strongly that it had something to do with Fleur—but his most recent behavior suggested a disturbing lack of any respect for the French witch. Perhaps Roger felt that it was only in her nature as a Veela to respond to any man's overtures in an amorous fashion—if so, Harry could only be disgusted with his prejudice.

Even more disconcerting—to Dumbledore too, if the frown Harry detected on his face when he had a brief moment to look at him was any indication—was the constant stream of invective Roger spouted during their duel, or at least when he was not shouting out his spells. He was certainly not pulling any punches, asserting his opinion on Harry, Fleur, and anything else which came to mind, all while sporting that same smug smirk with which he had begun the match. Harry longed to wipe it off his face!

"How does it feel to be in second place, Potter?" Roger sneered as he conjured a strong wind which buffeted Harry. He followed up with a stunner and a bludgeoning curse, which Harry all neatly avoided.

"I cannot imagine what you mean," responded Harry, replying with a leg-locker and several conjured birds which he directed at Roger.

The Head Boy merely laughed at Harry's attempts and dispelled them, before responding with his own attacks. "I just wondered how it would be to get the Veela, _after_ I've already had her."

"I know _exactly_ what happened between you and Fleur," was Harry's cold reply. His answering stunner was highly overpowered, blowing through Roger's shield and narrowly missing him as he dodged out of the way. "Unfortunately—for you—it was much less than you have imagined to be. I have complete confidence in Fleur."

Roger's responding banishing curse was wildly aimed and did not come near Harry. Harry smiled grimly, knowing that Roger's strategy of angering him was backfiring on the Head Boy. Harry fired a leg-locker at the smirking Head Boy, barely missing him as Roger responded.

"You wish, Potter. The Veela is delectable, after all. I can understand why you engineered your engagement to her."

"You talk too much, Davies," Harry growled while firing a reductor at Roger, then bracketing it with a stunner and a confundus, which barely missed him.

"Of course, knowing her… _reputation_ at Beauxbatons, I expect I was not the first either."

Allowing a stunner splash against his shield, Harry slashed his wand forward, yelling, "_Aguamenti!"_

Roger's laugh of disdain turned to concern, however, as Harryfollowed the water spell up with a quick, "_Glacius!_"

The jet of water which had pooled about Roger's feet instantly froze under the lashing of the frigid jet of air, freezing the Head Boy's shoes to the floor. Roger flailed his arms desperately, trying to maintain his balance while at the same time attempting to thaw the ice. The attempt was almost comical, though Harry could not laugh, given the anger he felt for Roger's vile words. He was able to put the Head Boy away and end the fight with an almost lazy, "_Incarcerous!_"

The spell impacted his opponent, throwing him off his feet—minus his shoes which stayed stuck to the floor—and threw him headlong off the platform to lie motionless on the floor.

"I told you—you talk too much," Harry rasped as his wand arm dropped to his side. The match had been longer than any of the other ones which had been fought that evening—with the possible exception of the Weasley twins' laugh-fest—and it had left Harry completely spent.

The silence in the room lasted an instant before the cheering of the club members shattered the silence of the aftermath of the duel. Harry only caught a brief hint of movement before he was assaulted by twin blurs—one brown, the other light blonde—as both of his closest friends latched onto him from either side.

"I _knew_ you could do it," Fleur laughed in his ear. Hermione just hugged him tightly.

"Well done, Mr. Potter!" Professor Flitwick approached through the murmuring throng. "I see that Albus did not exaggerate in the slightest when he told me of your prowess. Very well done indeed!"

Ducking his head, his cheeks flaming, Harry was only able to mumble that he had simply done his best. The professor, however, was having none of it.

"I believe that you may be far too self-effacing for your own good, Mr. Potter. You must learn to accept praise when it is due, and in the matter of your dueling skills, it is most certainly warranted!"

"I want to see what would happen if Harry and Fleur dueled!" Ron exclaimed.

Of course, this began a series of discussions among the assembled club members, which gradually reached a crescendo of noise, with a near unanimous expression of excitement at the prospect of one final duel between the two undefeated leaders of the club.

"At the risk of offending all those present," the voice of the Headmaster cut over the noise, "I fear that it is too close to curfew to indulge in such a display."

Groans and protests ran through the crowd, but Dumbledore was adamant. "You shall all have another chance to witness such a spectacle, I am sure."

As the group quieted, Harry noticed Roger—who had been released, presumably by the Headmaster—standing behind Dumbledore, his head bowed. The fight appeared to have gone out of the Head Boy altogether.

"Good fight, Roger," Harry said, deciding it was better to be gracious in victory. He extended his hand as a gesture of goodwill toward the other boy.

Roger, however, did not take the offered olive branch. His head snapped up and he glared at Harry. The hatred in his gaze was evident for all to see. He snapped something under his breath which sounded suspiciously like, "You got lucky!" and then Roger turned on his heel and stalked from the room, his head held high and proud.

Harry shrugged, understanding that Roger was not likely to forgive or forget, and he resolved to ignore the boy from then on. He did not, however, miss the significant look the Headmaster directed at the Charms Professor, after which Flitwick once again congratulated Harry, Fleur, and Ginny for their victories and then exited the room. If Harry were to guess, he suspected that Roger would be having several very uncomfortable chats with both his head of house, and with the Headmaster before the week was out.

"I must commend you all," Dumbledore said, ignoring Roger's behavior. "Your matches were very well fought, and you all showed glimpses of your future potential.

"And well done to Harry, and all who help him with the club," Dumbledore continued, smiling at Harry and his friends. "This tournament was a splendid idea, one which I am certain you will make use of again in the future."

Slapping Harry on the back, Dumbledore took his leave with an admonishment for everyone to proceed to their dorms as soon as may be.

The meeting broke up soon after, the club members leaving to make their way to their respective dorms, the sounds of excited chatter echoing down the hallways of the old school.

Harry's core group, however, did not break up immediately with the rest.

"You sure showed Roger a thing or two," one of the twins said.

He was followed up by his brother. "Freezing his shoes to the floor was inspired."

"As inventive a prank as something we might have come up with."

"There's hope for you yet!"

Harry flashed them a grin and acknowledged their compliments with a grin. He then nonchalantly polished his fingernails on his shirt, and put his hand out as though to admire them. "What can I say? It appears that some of us have it, while others—"

"…like our esteemed Head Boy, _pretend_ they have it!" Ron finished, to the general laughter of the group. Several of the female members were seen to roll their eyes, however, at the boys' posturing, though it was obvious that it was just for show, and more good-natured than mean-spirited.

"I'd like to know what's gotten into Roger," said Neville, to which several of the group nodded their heads in agreement.

Harry's eyes flickered to Fleur's face and though her expression gave nothing away, there was something in her eyes which suggested that ass much as he had thought of the need for them to speak, that she had decided they would have one at their earliest opportunity. Harry, knowing that Fleur did not and would never betray him, was not precisely concerned. He was, however, curious as to why she had never brought the subject up with him.

"Oh come now, Neville, it's obvious," one of the twins said with a snort.

"Plain as the nose on your face," chimed in the other.

"You see, it's clear that Roger has a bad case of Harry-induced jealousy, otherwise known as Boy-Who-Lived Envy."

"Harry's got the skill, the talent, and now," the second twin continued with a sly glance in Fleur's direction, "he's got Roger's Yule Ball date on his arm."

"It's got to be hard on the Head Boy's ego."

"Will you two ever be serious?" Daphne demanded with a roll of her eyes.

"Nope."

"Sirius is Harry's godfather."

Several groans met the twins' pun, but it was obvious from the identical grins the two sported, that the general reaction did not bother them in the slightest.

"They're not really funny," said Tracey with a sly glance at the twins, "but they may have a point."

"Hey!" the twins cried in unison. "I'll have you know that we are _very_ funny!"

"What he said," said the other, pointing at his brother.

"All right you two," admonished Harry, though he was fighting back a grin. "Pipe down already."

Turning back to the group from the clearly unrepentant twins, he said, "I just hope that Roger will let up after tonight."

"Who wants to bet that he doesn't come back to the club?" Ron asked with a grin.

"I wouldn't want to take that bet," said Neville.

"I'd say the Head Boy will be having a little talk with the Headmaster," opined Daphne. "The way Flitwick and Dumbledore were looking at him suggested that they were _not_ happy with how he acted tonight."

Harry just shook his head. "I don't care much about that. I just want him to back off; he's becoming a distraction."

Murmurs of agreement sounded all around. The group broke up soon after that, dispersing to their house groups—curfew _was_ quickly approaching, after all. Unfortunately, trouble of a different kind awaited them once they stepped from the Room of Requirement.

Harry was chatting with Hermione and Ron, while Fleur—who had not yet let go of his hand—walked on his other side, when he was surprised by a voice addressing him.

"Potter!"

Knowing that voice anywhere, Harry turned and regarded the Malfoy scion while allowing the expressionless mask he usually wore when dealing with the Slytherin—at least when he was not contemptuous of the git's existence or irate with his continual baiting, which was more often than not—to slip over his face. For a change, Malfoy sported little of his usual expression of disdain or distaste, though it was so ingrained in the boy that Harry doubted it would ever completely disappear. Rather, he was regarding Harry in an uncharacteristically serious manner, one which Harry usually did not associate with Malfoy.

"Malfoy," Harry replied neutrally, deciding that if the Slytherin was going to be civil, that he would respond in like manner. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Daphne and Tracey—the only two Slytherins who had remained after the bulk of the club had left—had stopped to watch the confrontation. "What can I do for you?"

A grimace passed over Malfoy's face, as though he was about to do something distasteful, and knowing the ponce, if it had something to do with Harry, it likely was.

"I hear you have a club."

"News travels fast," Harry commented to Hermione. "A toad leaves, the need for secrecy disappears, and suddenly the news is all over the school."

Hermione said nothing in response. She merely nodded and stared at Malfoy, as though attempting to determine just what he wanted.

Malfoy to his credit glanced at Hermione and appeared to swallow back some retort or another. Harry, who had just about heard everything the Slytherin had to offer, could almost imagine what he had wanted to say. It made Harry suspicious; this was _not_ Malfoy's normal behavior.

"Well, I'll be joining your club," the Slytherin continued. "You only meet on Wednesday nights, right?"

Harry would not have been more surprised if Malfoy had suddenly announced his intention to give up his magic, donate his father's fortune to Muggle charity, and announce his engagement with his father's house-elf.

_"If his father still _has_ a house-elf,"_ Harry thought, stifling a snicker.

"You want to join our club," Harry repeated slowly, so as to ensure he had heard Malfoy correctly.

"I think you may be suffering from hearing loss," Malfoy sneered. "I don't _want to join_ your club; I'm _joining_ your club. What time do you meet?"

For the time being, Harry ignored his assertion. "Let me get this straight—you actually want to join a club which is run by a Half-blood, and taught by a bunch of Blood Traitors and those who you consider your inferiors."

"That just about sums it up," Malfoy drawled. "Glad to see you're beginning to understand your own position in life. The only part you got wrong was the part about me _wanting_ to join. It's a school club—I'll join it if I want."

He appeared to be quite smug about what he considered his right to do as he wished, but Harry still ignored his assertion. "Why?" he demanded.

"It's a _school club_, Potter," Malfoy said, his tone suggesting he thought Harry was mentally challenged. "I have the right to join if I want to."

"No, I mean why do you want to join?" Harry clarified impatiently. "Given what you think of all of us, I'd assume you think you know better and could teach us a thing or two."

"I probably can."

"Isn't it amazing how people bluster and strut and don't realize how ignorant they really are?" Ron said in a stage whisper.

Though he glowered at the youngest Weasley male, Malfoy airily turned his nose up and pointedly focused on Harry. "Our Defense instructor left something to be desired. Though I'm supremely confident in my own abilities, I figure a little more practical application would be good. If nothing else, the rest of you should make me look good."

Several snorts and chuckles sounded around them, but Harry kept his attention on the Slytherin and considered the situation. Malfoy was certainly not excited about joining the club—he had portrayed it as inevitable due to his perceived 'right' to do whatever he wanted. But it was clear that simply speaking to Harry without all the usual insults was not something he enjoyed. The question was why he wanted to join at all—the Malfoy Harry knew would have spurned the whole thing as a waste for someone as obviously superior as he was. Even worse, it was being run by a bunch of uppity Gryffindors. No, there was more to this than simply a desire to catch up in his work, and Harry had a sneaking suspicion he knew who was behind it. Regardless, it did not change the fact that he would not give Malfoy the time of day, to say nothing of his instinct to teach his worst persecutor how to get the upper hand.

"Well, when do you meet?" Malfoy demanded.

"No," was Harry's cold response.

The Slytherin gazed at him in confusion. "What do you mean, 'no'? Are you not meeting again? Have you taught them everything within your vaunted repertoire already? Are you now all experts who have no need to practice? I should have figured a bunch of Blood Traitors and lesser beings wouldn't be able to do anything right."

Malfoy was nothing if not predictable. When in doubt, fall back on the staple of tired insults and bravado. Harry decided he was not going to fall for it and get into a heated argument with the boy—it would serve no purpose.

"I meant no, you cannot join the club."

"What do you mean I can't join?" Malfoy queried, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"I'm not certain how I can make it any clearer," Harry said. "I run the club, I have the final say in who joins and who doesn't join, and I am telling you that you are not welcome. In fact, I believe that you are just about the last person I would ever allow into the club. Mordred himself would be preferable to you. Now, was there anything else you wanted or can we head back to our common rooms?"

"Perhaps you are not familiar with the rules of this school, being a Half Blood," Draco enunciated, as though explaining something to some recalcitrant and particularly obtuse child. "Of course, growing up amongst the Muggles is not in your favor either. The fact of the matter is that you have no right to block me from joining your little club. All clubs at Hogwarts are open to all students."

"And perhaps _you_ know less than you think you do," rejoined Harry. "As usual, you take faulty and incomplete information and try to bluster your way through by intimidation. Actually, all clubs are open to every student _unless_ the Headmaster approves the formation of an invitation-only club. Dumbledore has approved and it's my club, ergo, no, you can't join."

"There is no such rule!" Malfoy, predictably, was flustered, and had fallen back on his typical brand of petulance to get his own way. His attempt at his previous composure was now badly frayed.

"There certainly is. If you don't believe me you can go see Professor Dumbledore."

Sputtering, Malfoy had nothing to say to that, and Harry sensed that he had not expected to be rebuffed and was not completely certain of how to handle the experience. Very likely the boy had hardly ever been told no in his life, and this did not even take into account all the times his parents had filled his head with exaggerated impressions of his own superiority. He was learning a valuable lesson, though Harry doubted whether he would learn it at all.

"Look Malfoy, I've only invited those who I know I can trust to the club, and you certain don't fit into that mold."

"But you invited Greengrass and Davis and the other Slytherins," Malfoy blustered. "Are you trying to tell me that you trust _them?_"

"I'm not about to justify anything to you of all people," Harry responded. "Now, I've already asked you once, but you didn't answer; why do you want to join anyway?"

"Does it matter why I want to join?"

Harry threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Is he for real?"

"It depends," was Ron's sarcastic answer to his rhetorical question. "He's a real git, if that's what you mean."

"No one asked you, Weasley," Draco snapped. "If I wanted the opinions of charity cases, I would donate a few knuts to your welfare fund."

"Look Malfoy—" Ron began while stepping forward, his fists flexing in a threatening manner.

But Harry was not about to allow this to devolve into a physical confrontation. "Of course it matters why, Malfoy," Harry said loudly, motioning to Ron to stand down. "Your continual yapping about your own superiority and your support for your stupid dork lord puts you on the opposite side of the fence. That as much as anything is why I won't train you."

Though Malfoy appeared unable to find a reply to that, Harry decided to have a little fun with the ponce. "I'll tell you what," Harry said, "I'll tell you a story."

"Why would I want to listen to a story from you, Scarhead?" Malfoy demanded.

"Because it concerns you, git," snapped Harry in response. He thought for a moment before he adopted a storyteller's voice. Here was a chance to embarrass the git without any consequences, and Harry was not about to pass up the opportunity.

"You see, Malfoy, there once was a young man who attended a school in a remote location. He was a brilliant chap really, good in his studies, popular, had a gorgeous girlfriend, that kind of thing."

"I'm warning you, Potter…" Malfoy said, evidently attempting to be intimidating.

Harry ignored him. "But life was not all rosy for our hero," he continued. "He had the normal teenage worries and concerns, not to mention an insane megalomaniac after his head. But he also had to put up with a git who considered it his mission in life to do whatever it took to make the hero's life miserable."

"Potter!" Malfoy cried.

"Really, Draco, old chum, you do talk too much," Harry drawled. "Now where was I?" He gazed upward for a moment as though deep in thought before he turned again toward the Malfoy scion—who was by now almost purple with indignation—and continued speaking.

"You see, though the two did not get along in the slightest and there had never been even a hint of a truce between them, one day, the git asked the hero for help to improve his skills. The hero, being far too trusting and hoping that his nemesis would finally get over his grudge agreed and proceeded to train the git until he gained _some semblance_ of competence.

"Are you following me, Malfoy?" Harry demanded with a smirk.

"Is there a point to this long-winded drivel?"

"Of course!" Harry exclaimed. "I was just getting to that. Because you see, after the hero had taught his enemy to better himself, the git tried to use that knowledge to stab him in the back."

Harry grinned at Malfoy's near apoplexy and continued slyly, "Of course the git was still defeated as the hero, though trusting, was not completely foolish, and did not teach the git everything he knew. Besides, the git was not even close to the hero in terms of competence or ability, so it wouldn't have mattered if he had shown him everything. Still, it was somewhat foolish to assume that the git could change, as he had proven himself time and time again to be a bigoted creep with no redeeming qualities."

By now Harry's friends were all smiling and more than a few snickers could be heard at Harry's obvious and outrageous story. On one level Harry knew that what he was doing was unkind, but on another, he was happy to finally be getting some payback for all the times that Malfoy had made his life miserable.

Though Malfoy was visibly furious, Harry suspected that the only reason he had not whipped out his wand by now was the fact that he was alone against Harry and all of his friends. He would have to be extra careful in the next few days as he would not put it past the git to try to hex him when he was not expecting it. Luckily, Harry had grown to expect it at any time—especially when the Slytherin thought he could do it when Harry was unaware—so he was used to watching the Slytherin closely.

"Are you quite finished?" Malfoy growled.

"Really, Malfoy, I knew you were dense, but I didn't know you were _this_ stupid. I'll make it clear so that even and inbred twit like you can understand—I'm not going to teach you how to defeat me, even though you and I both know that you will never be able to match me."

"My father will hear about this," Malfoy threatened, repeating an oft used refrain. It was, in fact, the first time Harry had heard it from Malfoy this term.

"I'm counting on it," Harry responded. "I'm pretty sure 'dear Daddy' put you up to this, and I know that Lucky Lucy never wipes his arse without the Dork Lord's express permission, and his instruction on exactly how to do it."

"You'll pay for this, Potter!" Malfoy threatened.

"Just like I paid all the other times you made that threat," Harry rejoined dismissively. "Now, why don't you piss off and go kiss Voldy's arse again? Speaking this much to you all in one go makes me want to go bleach my brain."

Malfoy directed a withering glare at him before he turned and stalked off in a snit. Harry watched him to make sure he would not pull anything stupid before he resumed walking with his friends, most of whom congratulated him on his disposal of the hated Slytherin.

Hermione, however, directed a worried look at him before speaking. "Harry, umm… should you wind him up like that?"

"Probably not," Harry admitted. "But it was pretty satisfying."

"Satisfying or not, it is really not very kind," added Fleur. "You are just pulling yourself down to his level."

Sighing, Harry nodded and agreed that they were likely right. It had only been in the past several months that he had gained a certain level of confidence that he had begun pushing back at Malfoy in such a manner. It was not surprising to note that pushing the boy's buttons was eminently satisfying, but there was also something to be said for taking the high road and not getting caught up in Malfoy's own game.

"I suppose you're right. I guess I just let myself get carried away—he's been a git the whole time I've been at Hogwarts and sometimes it's nice to get a little payback."

"Harry," Fleur said softly, but affectionately, "I know he has been a thorn in your side for years, and I know you have every right to give him a taste of his own medicine, but I do not think you need to stoop to his level."

"Aw, does that mean no more rubbing the Quidditch match in Malfoy's face?" one of the twins asked playfully.

"Yes!" said Hermione. "They deserve it, but you shouldn't lower yourselves and act like they do."

"You take the fun out of things sometimes, Hermione," Ron grumbled.

"But she's right," Ginny said. "We _are_ the good guys, after all."

"Good, bad, it's all semantics," Harry responded with a grin. "I much prefer 'us' and 'them'. It's very clear and doesn't mix morality up in the situation."

The group laughed at Harry's words before they dispersed for the evening, each house separating into its own group and starting back toward their own dormitories. For Harry, he spent the journey back to the dorms thinking about what Hermione and Fleur had said. Yes, Malfoy deserved it and yes, it was fun at times, but Harry had to admit that he had begun to behave in a rather Malfoy-esque manner recently, and it was not something that had ever been part of his personality. There was something to be said for restraint, especially when every word he spoke would likely make it back to Voldemort's ears.

On second thought, Harry admitted to himself with a grin, Malfoy was not likely to relate the entire confrontation, as it would undoubtedly cast himself in a less-than-favorable light to either his father, or his father's master. And if there was one thing that the blond ponce could not stomach, it was the thought of his image taking a hit. No, Malfoy would likely tell them nothing other than the fact that he had been rebuffed.

* * *

Once they had arrived back at the Gryffindor common room, Harry and Fleur said good night to their fellow Gryffindors and by unspoken agreement, retired to an unused corner. It was a small cubbyhole which was largely out of sight from the rest of the room, and typically used by couples seeking a relatively private location for their amorous liaisons. Harry and Fleur had never made use of it, not yet being that comfortable with their relationship, but of course they received a round of wolf whistles and gentle teasing from the rest of their friends once their destination was known. If either could have seen into the thoughts of the other, they would have seen a similar determination to have the long-overdue discussion about a certain Head Boy.

Situated comfortably in the small love seat in the cubbyhole, Harry sat and looked at his beautiful betrothed. Things had been going quite well between them, he decided, and fresh off her victory in the tournament, she looked more appealing than ever, though her hair was in disarray and her face still slightly flushed from her exertions. He was lucky to have someone like her, he decided, and it was not only because of her looks—she had an innate goodness and competence about her, not to mention a sweet personality which was especially appealing.

"Fleur—"

"I think we need—"

They spoke together, each stopping and smiling at the other when they realized they had spoken at the same time.

"You first, Harry," she said, reaching out to take his hand between her own.

"I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you for winning the tournament," Harry told her with a smile and a squeeze of his hand. "I always knew you were a resourceful and powerful witch, and now everyone else does too."

Fleur ducked her head a little, but then looked him in the eye with some determination. "I am not concerned about what other people think of me, Harry. They can believe whatever they like."

"I know," Harry said with a shrug. "But I've heard lots of people say things like they didn't know how you were made a champion. That kind of stuff. But I always knew it wasn't true."

"It is fine, Harry. I have had to deal with attitudes like that since I was a girl. I am not offended."

"You don't need to be offended," Harry said with a grin. "I'll be offended for you."

Smiling at him, Fleur released his hand and leaned against him, while Harry lifted his arm and put it around her shoulders. They had never been this physically close, and Harry was finding he was enjoying the sensations their closeness engendered. Fleur was soft and curvy and very feminine. Oh yes, he was enjoying it _very_ much.

"Thank you, Harry. But I believe we should speak about Roger—I am sure you have noticed a change in him lately."

"I have," Harry admitted, "and though I'd like to dispute it, I've got an idea that the twins were right."

"They were," Fleur confirmed. "I have told you before about my Yule date with Roger. I want you to know that I never saw anything more in him than as a date which I was required to have as a champion. After that night, I do not think I spoke more than two words to him for the rest of the year."

"You don't need to explain further," Harry assured her. "I don't believe anything he said. I trust you."

Seemingly buoyed by Harry's assertion, Fleur let out a sigh and burrowed in closer to him. "Thank you, Harry. But I still think I owe you an explanation."

Quietly, and without much fanfare, Fleur began to speak of the encounters she had had with Roger over the course of that year, focusing on the specifics of what had happened and what she had felt and how she had responded. She touched little on her opinion of Roger's possible motives—they had already agreed on what they believed his motives to be, after all, and neither considered further conversation on the subject to be necessary. It was in some ways worse than Harry had expected—especially their last confrontation in the library—and less than he had feared. At least the Head Boy had not gone beyond verbal passes in his attempt to get Fleur to dally with him.

This could not continue, however. Roger was intruding upon Fleur's peace of mind with his efforts, and Harry was not about to stand aside and allow her to be imposed upon in such a manner.

When she had finished, Harry immediately asked her what she thought they should do about the situation. The answer was not surprising, considering her personality.

"Do not worry about me, Harry. I can handle myself."

"I know that, Fleur," Harry responded, pulling away to look her in the eyes. "But I won't allow him to continue to do this. You don't deserve to be treated like this. You know he's just using your heritage to justify what he's doing."

Sighing, Fleur leaned into Harry's side again. "I suspect as much. But I think he will no choice but to change after your duel with him. The fact that you beat him will make him stop. I am certain he is just a bully.

"And besides," Fleur continued with a small giggle, "did you see how Professor Dumbledore was watching him? I think the Head Boy is in trouble!" she finished in a sing-song tone.

Chuckling, Harry hugged the French witch to his side, still thinking about the situation with Roger. A part of him—admittedly the Neanderthal intent on protecting his woman—wanted to hex Roger all the way to London and back. He wanted Roger to break out in a cold sweat every time he even thought of approaching Fleur again.

But he had to admit that Fleur was likely right. And even if she was not, there were still ways to handle the situation which did not involve confrontations and violence. He highly suspected that his friends were right and that the Headmaster took a very dim view of Roger's actions that evening. It was likely that Roger would back down now. Besides, Harry had already admitted to himself—that very night!—that he had developed a very undesirable character trait in the past few months. Did that not apply to this situation as well? Challenging the Head Boy, taunting him or trying to humiliate him—these things were the mark of a bully, a label Fleur had just applied to Roger. Harry wanted to be better than that. He _would_ be better than that, he decided.

"If you think we can leave it be, then I'm fine with that," he told her.

He could feel, rather than see, Fleur's responding smile, and indulged himself in a brief reflection of just how beautiful it appeared on her face.

"Thank you, Harry," Fleur responded. "Thank you for your trust and for your faith in me. Believe me—you have nothing to worry about from Roger."

"That's a relief," Harry said with a laugh. "I'd hate to think that you prefer a loud-mouthed braggart over me. Sorry, Fleur, but that's the way he's behaved lately."

"I know," Fleur admitted. "But to be honest, I am much more interested in our relationship, than in talking about Roger any more."

"Oh?"

"I have just been wondering… Well, actually I have been meaning…"

She trailed off and fell silent.

"Fleur?" he prompted, getting a sigh in response.

"This is all just so frustrating," said Fleur. "I've never been in this situation before and I don't really know what to do."

"Neither have I," Harry said. He was proud of how his voice was steady and clear, but inside butterflies had begun fluttering in his stomach at the suspicion that she wanted to talk about _them_. He was not good at this interpersonal stuff, and part of him wanted to run screaming, as it was obvious that Fleur wanted to discuss their relationship. Any hot-blooded male would flee at such a prospect! With his upbringing, Harry knew that he was not very good at speaking about such personal subjects.

Fleur pulled away from him and smiled. "Then I guess we will just have to figure it out together."

She stopped for a moment, thinking about what she wanted to say, before looking back up at him. She began hesitantly, "I was just concerned over the state of our relationship."

"Is it because of what Roger said?" Harry asked.

"Partly," Fleur admitted. But more than that, it is just that it is… moving so slowly. But I have never been in a relationship before and I do not know how quickly it is _supposed_ to develop. I guess I just wonder what you think about me."

Abashed, Harry felt his cheeks begin to burn at her direct question. Never having been comfortable with relationships of any kind, he did not know precisely how to act, or how to respond. He was about to respond—how he was not certain, but likely with some stammered drivel which would make little sense—when he glanced up and was caught by Fleur's eyes. She had very pretty, light blue eyes with darker flecks around the irises, but it was the earnest determination in them that calmed Harry and made him realize that Fleur was being very open and serious about the conversation. He could do no less.

"I really like you, Fleur," he said, albeit somewhat hesitantly. "I've enjoyed getting to know you and I have come to feel that you are someone I can confide in. I've never had many friends I've felt particularly close to, but you're quickly moving to the top of the list.

"I'm also very attracted to you," Harry quickly admitted, before he could lose his nerve. "I'd have to be a zombie, _not_ to be attracted to you. But it's much more than that. You're a wonderful person, Fleur, and I feel lucky that I have you in my life."

Apparently it was the right thing to say, as Fleur directed a brilliant smile at him, so beautiful that it almost took his breath away. "Thank you, Harry," was Fleur's quiet response. Then she winked at him. "You sure are a charmer, to be saying things like that to a girl."

Pleased that he had gotten it right, Harry grinned at her and squeezed her hand. "I think we're both lucky. I know we both wondered if this betrothal contract was really a good idea. I think we've both seen that we can be very good together."

"We can," Fleur agreed. "But I have wondered if we are moving too slowly. We are to be married some day, after all. Should we not begin to act like we will?"

Abashed, Harry still nodded with whatever composure he possessed. "I was just giving you space to get used to the betrothal. I didn't want to push you. I wasn't sure of your feelings."

"Oh Harry," Fleur said with an affectionate hug. "That is so like you. You do not need to worry about me—I will let you know if we go further than I am comfortable with."

Still bashful, Harry nodded his head in agreement. "So, you want to start acting a little more like a couple?"

"I think we should," said Fleur. "There are some benefits, you know." She laughed and favored him with an arch smile. "I assume you would find some of the _normal activities_ of engaged couples to be pleasant. Would you not?"

Grinning, Harry waggled his eyebrows, relieved that he was beginning to feel confidence swell within him. "I'm sure they could not be anything _but_ pleasant."

"In that case, I think we should seal it with a kiss," she said before she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

As a first kiss it was soft and sweet and very pleasant, and Harry could only agree that it was an excellent suggestion. Harry found himself responding immediately, and though they kept it chaste and did not venture into the territory Harry had sometimes heard Dudley bragging that he had done with his girlfriend, he still decided he liked kissing Fleur very much.

It did not last long, but Harry found himself strangely breathless when Fleur leaned back and regarded him. Harry was filled with elation. "That was very nice," he said, unknowingly beginning to babble. "I think you were right about our relationship and I—"

His words were stilled when Fleur, smiling softly, reached out and pressed her fingers against Harry's lips. "You talk too much, Harry. Kiss me again."

And so he did.

* * *

_Updated 06/27/2013  
_


	27. Chapter 26 – Potential Conflicts

**Chapter 26 – Potential Conflicts**

Bearing bad news to the Dark Lord was sometimes a hazardous prospect. It was never a simple matter to determine just how displeased he would be and whether his displeasure would manifest itself in a way which included physical punishment. Having said that, he was not known to punish indiscriminately, understanding that followers who were motivated by conviction were infinitely more useful and effective than those motivated by nothing more than base fear. And though he was not above using the Cruciatus to punish some underling who had failed, such punishments were only reserved for those who had done so egregiously. However, the mercurial nature of his moods created just enough uncertainty that one could never know exactly what form his displeasure would make itself known.

Often, the threat of violence and punishment was more effective than the actual committing of said violence. The sight of the Dark Lord seething in anger was an awesome sight, and many a follower had felt somehow reprieved when his famous anger remained physically unexpressed.

In addition to this the Dark Lord had a particular way of regarding those—particularly those of his inner circle—who had failed him. It was an expression which seemed to suggest that failure was an enormous imposition on the plans of a man who, after all, only desired to put the world back on its proper axis, and ensure that his followers received their due from the world. When this was added to his praise, which was often lavish, when his followers were successful, he had a pretty powerful motivational tool to ensure compliance with his commands.

Unfortunately for one Lucius Malfoy, that exasperated and longsuffering expression had been directed at him more often than not since the Dark Lord's return, and all because of an ill-conceived plan which had backfired spectacularly and resulted in the destruction of an heirloom which the Dark Lord prized. To this day Lucius still did not know what had been so important about the diary, but the Dark Lord's displeasure upon learning of its destruction had earned him his first—and only—session to date under the agonies of the Cruciatus. Working his way back into the Dark Lord's graces had been arduous, but seemed to be bearing fruit.

But now he had to report another failure, and given the Dark Lord's sometimes unpredictable moods, Lucius was uncertain as to whether this was to be considered a significant failure or merely a minor inconvenience. And the failure was not even his own!

Stalking through the halls of the Death Eaters' base of operations, Lucius seethed at the continuing incompetence of his only son. Draco was a disappointment. In fact, he was such a disappointment, that Lucius had toyed with the idea of siring another heir, for certainly his current heir was nothing like he would have expected would result from the joining of his own august bloodline to that of the Blacks—a family with a long history, steeped in Pureblood tradition. How such a failure could have occurred Lucius was not certain, but it had and to be truthful, he was not certain what to do about it.

In short, Draco was nothing like a true Slytherin should be. Draco was in fifth year now, and by Lucius's own fifth year, he had already been starting to take the reins of leadership in Slytherin house as scion of one of the most prestigious families in Britain. Draco… well, he was ambitious enough, but had very little talent or will to do anything to realize his ambitions. Instead of true Slytherin cunning, he had a disturbing tendency toward Gryffindor-like brashness, not to mention a rather overt confrontational style. And though he had plenty of loyalty towards his father and the Dark Lord, Draco did not know the meaning of hard work, or understand that it went hand in hand with ambition and cunning, all of which would allow one to realize their goals. And as for intelligence… No, Draco was anything but a mix of the houses—or at least he was not a mix of the _good_ traits of the houses, and at this point, Lucius was uncertain that he was a worthy heir to the Malfoy name and legacy.

Shaking his head angrily, Lucius stopped and collected himself; it would not do to appear before the Dark Lord with anything other than a calm dispassionate demeanor. The Dark Lord had an almost supernatural ability to detect weakness, and Lucius had no desire to be set down once again when he was just beginning to regain the favor he had once enjoyed. The problem of Draco would have to wait.

The room into which Lucius entered had been dubbed "the throne room" by those denizens of the house, and though Lucius could not claim to know the mind of the Dark Lord, the term was very apropos. It was long and spacious, with windows on the far wall to allow in the natural light of the day. The chair in which the Dark Lord sat, which was itself situated on a low raised dais, was ornate and high-backed—and likely transfigured from something else. The room was empty when Lucius entered except for the Dark Lord, a circumstance which was highly in Lucius's favor. His fellow Death Eaters were also adept at sniffing out blood in the water, and Lucius had no desire to report his son's failure before an audience.

"Ah, Lucius, welcome," the Dark Lord greeted him as he approached the throne.

Lucius bowed with respect before returning the greeting, noting that the Dark Lord appeared to be in an uncommonly good mood. That would undoubtedly be to his favor.

The Dark Lord, perceptive as he was, noticed Lucius's observation. "Plans are moving forward, my friend," he said with aplomb. "There are a few important things which need to be seen to in order to further our plans. But they shall be taken care of in due course."

Although Lucius knew that the Dark Lord had been preoccupied with Potter since the confrontation in the graveyard the previous spring, he knew better than to ask—the Dark Lord would favor him with the needs of the moment when the timing was appropriate. Everything else was irrelevant.

"I believe, however, that you did not come here to discuss our future plans," the Dark Lord continued. "Today was the day that your son was to report back to you, was it not?"

"Indeed, you are correct, My Lord," Lucius responded with a bow. "Draco approached Potter yesterday after his group's meeting. Potter rebuffed him, apparently with the Headmaster's approval, saying that it was an invitation only club."

In truth, Lucius suspected that Potter had done more than rebuff Draco, and his son had suffered another humiliation at the hands of the Boy-Who-Lived, given the tone of his letter. Still, Draco's failure was uncertain enough that Lucius felt it better to stick to the facts, rather than wander off into conjecture. That and it would lessen Lucius's shame if his conjecture was true.

"Ah, so Potter did refuse young Draco entrance to his little club. Pity."

"I apologize for my son's failure, My Lord."

The Dark Lord just waved him off. "There was only a slight chance that the Potter brat would be shortsighted enough to actually allow it. The information on exactly what he is teaching his friends and some insight into how powerful the boy truly is would have been useful. It is, however, not essential."

_This_, more than anything, was what frustrated Lucius about being uncertain of his position with the Dark Lord. Before his fall and subsequent return, Lucius would have known that the Dark Lord was not truly concerned about Draco's task. Now, however, he could not take the chance. It _was_ good to know that this would not be held against him. In that, at least, he could be secure.

"Useful, perhaps, but surely it does not matter," Lucius said instead, moving past the issue of Draco's failure. "Potter is only a boy, regardless of how he manages to cheat death. He can only put the inevitable off for so long. Surely his time will come.

"Ah, but you forget, Lucius," the Dark Lord rebuked him mildly. "On several occasions the boy has defied me and survived when he should have been defeated.

"And before you say that the first was his meddling mother's doing, you are likely correct. However, I cannot help but suppose that something about the boy himself aided in his salvation, whether it was his magic, or something else which sets him apart. It would be foolhardy to suggest that Potter is only a boy and is not special somehow—he most clearly is, and he will require delicate handling.

"Beyond that, nothing I have been able to find has allowed me to uncover how exactly he was able to survive my killing curse that night. Add to that the fact that the boy met me at wand point and was completely outclassed, and _still_ managed to survive. And that does not even take into account the confrontation in the boy's first year, and all the things he has managed to survive since arriving at Hogwarts. Whatever it is that allows him to continue to defy me, I cannot lower my guard. He must die the next time we meet—there is no other outcome possible."  
"Very well, my lord. Is there anything else you would have my son do?"  
"Nothing specific at this time," the Dark Lord said after some thought. "He should watch them whenever possible and report back whatever he is to discuss of their strengths and weaknesses, including anything he is able to determine of the club's curriculum."  
"And the house traitors who are involved in Potter's circle?" Lucius asked. "Should he attempt to… remind them where their true loyalties should lie?"

"Again, there is little point in it now. Though we cannot allow members of _my_ house to fraternize in such a manner with Potter indefinitely, now is not the time to make noise. Let them become complacent for now. Of course, that does not mean he should not begin asserting his authority over the entire house, much as both you and I did when we attended Hogwarts."

Lucius could not completely suppress the grimace at the Dark Lord's words. He had been relieved at first, as he doubted Draco had the talent and ability to truly bring the blood traitor Slytherins under control. Undoubtedly, he was equally incapable of taking a leadership role in Slytherin, for that matter, and that lack would become painfully apparent if he was directed to attempt to do so.

Unfortunately, his reaction was not missed by his perceptive companion.

"I understand that you have some… reservations about your son, my friend."

"I confess that I do," replied Lucius. "He is nothing that I would have expected in a son of mine, and shows an almost distressing incapability toward anything resembling cunning."

"Perhaps," the Dark Lord said, "but he also displays a proper attitude and a fervent loyalty to our beliefs. His energies need a little direction, but I believe that he will be acceptable if that direction is provided. Bring him before me when he returns for winter break and between us we will attempt to educate him better."

A wave of his hand indicated to Lucius that their conversation was at an end, so he bowed and retreated from the room. A letter would need to be written to Draco, and he had other tasks with which he was assigned. It was good, he reflected, to have the Dark Lord back. Those years in the wilderness without him had seemed empty and purposeless. It was good to finally be directing their resources toward a common goal. The Wizarding world would soon be theirs for the taking.

* * *

Though the days after the club's tournament were quiet, the behavior of Roger Davies, Head Boy and newly christened nemesis to one Harry Potter, was notable in the lack of any of his previous animosity toward Harry. Though nothing was ever said within the hearing of any of the students, Harry and his friends were almost certain that their speculation about the intentions of the Headmaster and Davies's head of house had been true. His generally subdued manner and intense avoidance of the group suggested that the meeting had resulted in his being reminded quite pointedly of the position he held and the fact that his overtly hostile behavior toward any student would not be tolerated. Though Harry passed him in the halls several times, Roger did not deign to acknowledge him, keeping his gaze resolutely away. In fact, though Roger was in many classes with Fleur, and even sat close to her in a couple, he was as studious in avoiding her as he was Harry. So in light of that fact, Harry was certain the animosity was not lessened, just hidden.

This shunning, of course, was not at all unwelcome to the pair in question—in fact, they felt rather cheerful in his lack of his focus on them, something they had desired all along. Furthermore, when he failed to show up at the Defense Club the next week, they heaved their last sigh of relief, as they had discussed removing his name from the list of club members should he attempt to attend again. His absence rendered their intentions unnecessary, a fact with which they were gratified, as the removal of the Head Boy from the club could carry some political ramifications within the school.

What they did not anticipate was the increased attendance at the next club meeting—which included even a couple of Slytherins among their number. It appeared that the events of the tournament had made the gossip rounds of the school, and suddenly many were eager to be included in what would undoubtedly be a great benefit of added study, especially since the first three months of the school year had been essentially wasted by their erstwhile Defense Professor.

Harry, along with Hermione and Fleur, were careful in vetting every student who requested admission—particularly the Slytherins, though they were assisted by Daphne and Tracey—but in the end accepted all applicants. The new members brought their overall numbers to greater than fifty, and included a larger portion of upper years from other houses who, up to that point, had remained skeptical of the club and had not been persuaded to join.

In direct contrast to the first months of the school year, Defense once again had become a class to anticipate rather than dread. Whatever could be said of Dumbledore, the man was a consummate teacher, who was comfortable in a classroom and showed a certain flair for explaining the lessons, guiding the students, or simply ruminating upon some obscure or theoretical idea. It was a revelation for the entire school, none of whom had ever seen him in a classroom, and also served to make him more… human, in a way, and certainly much more approachable than he had ever been before. The students in the school had largely grown up with accounts of the man's exploits, particularly those related to Gellert Grindelwald. They were familiar with the Headmaster, the defeater of the previous Dark Lord, and the man of many names and titles, and as such, the revelation that he could teach and teach well was a revelation to some, regardless of the fact that he had always attempted to be available to all students.

As for the other classes, well they continued apace, for the most part as they had all year. The excitement was building for winter break and the Yule Ball, and though that was sapping some of the students' attention away from their studying, life at the school seemed to continue much as it had.

Finally, with respect to the group of friends, Harry and Fleur's discussion and subsequent amorous activities—or as amorous as they had gotten to that point—had cemented in both their minds that they were making progress with one another, after little progress had been seen before. They both felt more comfortable and at ease with each other, and each, in their own minds, was well on the way to considering the other in a more intimate manner.

This, of course, led to more overt shows of affection, especially in their propensity to hold hands whenever they walked through the halls, and what had become a ritual for them to kiss each other goodbye when the time came for them to part.

Their greater comfort and affection with each other went largely uncommented upon by their friends, though it certainly did not go unnoticed. A little gentle ribbing, of course, was the order of the day and unsurprisingly, it was the Weasley twins who were the most overt in their teasing. They took to staring at Fleur in mock dreamy expressions whenever the two were present, which they claimed was what Harry looked like whenever he looked at the beautiful French witch. Harry, by contrast, was content to be somewhat smug at the fact that Fleur was on _his_ arm, to the envy of just about every boy in the school. This did nothing to silence the teasing, but it did allow Harry to respond in kind.

* * *

Daphne Greengrass was well aware of the effect she had on boys. With her slender figure, blue eyes and long flowing black locks, she was the epitome of a beautiful young girl just stepping over the threshold into the realm of womanhood. Even her average height was a benefit as she was not too short, and not so tall that she towered over others—boys by and large, she had noticed, seemed a little skittish around girls who were taller than they were. She had always known that she was blessed with good looks, but if seeing her own countenance in the mirror was not enough to inform her of her appealing countenance, then the glances she often received from the young men around her would have made the fact unmistakable. Of course, this was a blessing as well as a curse, as she attracted the attention of those she would otherwise prefer to have avoided. In particular, Malfoy had been after her for most of the past year to "dispense of her favors" as any good young woman should when confronted by the interest of such an impressive specimen of Pureblood virility. The fact that he was all but betrothed to the sycophantic Pansy Parkinson apparently did not figure into Draco's calculation of what he considered to be proper behavior.

Unfortunately for Malfoy, Daphne's parents had always taught her that she deserved as much respect as a Malfoy or anyone else, and she did not believe that spending time as his plaything was in any way respectable. This did not even take into account the fact that regardless of his blond hair and generally pleasant features, she found his sense of entitlement irksome and his attitude disgusting. Malfoy, when she took into account everything about him, was repulsive and Daphne could not imagine herself favoring him with anything other than her contempt.

Luckily for her, he was also completely ineffectual, with a much higher opinion of his abilities than he had any right, which was something of a blessing. A truly competent Malfoy with his attitude and bloated sense of his own worth would be a truly dangerous phenomenon. She had repeatedly informed him of her lack of interest, and though she had to admit that he was remarkably persistent, he lacked the skills to truly affect her, regardless of his bluster.

A particular illustration of this state of affairs played out the Friday after the tournament. It was late and Daphne, having spent most of the evening in the library researching for a Charms assignment, was on her way back to the Slytherin common room before curfew. She had just entered the corridor in the dungeons which led to her destination when Malfoy, accompanied by Parkinson—his favorite puppy—stepped from a side corridor and confronted her.

"Well look if it isn't Greengrass out after curfew," Parkinson sneered in her usual manner.

Daphne rolled her eyes. Snape could not have picked two more useless prefects had he tried. "I still have ten minutes, in case you're having trouble telling time."

Pansy sneered and appeared ready to retort when Draco interrupted her. "Shut up, Pansy," he commanded. "I need to speak with Daphne alone for a moment. Wait for me at the end of the hall."

Clearly he expected to be obeyed, as he turned away and completely ignored Pansy, focusing his attention on Daphne instead. Parkinson, presumably used to such rude behavior from Draco, directed a glare at him before thrusting her nose in the air and stalking off in a snit. For Daphne, the fact that he had called her by her given name was an indication that he was about to favor her with his attentions once again. She suppressed a sigh, knowing that it would make this interview even worse should she show any of her exasperation.

It was, therefore, something of a surprise when he did not immediately launch into his normal spiel of how she should show her proper respect for her betters, and direct her attention at him personally. Instead, he regarded her in silent contemplation, much more thoughtfully than he had ever done before, especially with his impetuous nature. It concerned her, if she were to be honest with herself.

"I'm rather disappointed in you, Daphne," Malfoy finally said without preamble.

Allowing herself nothing more than an arched eyebrow, Daphne merely stared at him.

"You've never shown the proper respect for your superiors," Malfoy continued, "but you've always at least associated with those worthy of your own stature. In the past few weeks, however, you've started to show some definite blood traitor tendencies."

"Perhaps I already had them and just never showed them," replied Daphne with some impudence.

Malfoy appeared to consider that for several moments. "Well, you _do_ hang around with Davis a lot." Tracey was a Halfblood—one of the few in Slytherin house. For those who cared about such things—which was not _the entirety_ of the house, contrary to popular belief—she was only accepted because her father had also been a Slytherin and was a member of society of some wealth and influence, regardless of the fact he had married a Muggleborn. Should Tracey's younger brother also be sorted into Slytherin, and he would start Hogwarts next year, he would be accepted on the same basis, though as the heir, he would undoubtedly have a leg up on Tracey.

But Malfoy had continued to speak on over Daphne's ruminations. "Still, she's acceptable to a certain extent I suppose, regardless of her _mother_." He spat the last word with some vitriolic contempt. "But you've kept your associations to those within the house for the most part, and even when you've spoken to those outside the house, at least you've kept it to those who come from acceptable backgrounds, for all that some of them are blood traitors."

"Malfoy," Daphne interrupted what was rapidly becoming a rant, "I don't exactly need your permission become friends with anyone. It's not like I've ever listened to anything you had to say before."

"Maybe not," said Malfoy, "though we still need to discuss that shameful behavior at some point."

At this, Daphne _did_ roll her eyes, not caring if the little prick noticed it or not. "My 'shameful behavior' as you put it is none of your concern."

"Look Greengrass," he said, his change to her surname a sure sign that he was becoming frustrated with her, "I just want to point out that things are different now. Hanging around with Bones and Davis might be acceptable, but throwing your lot in with Potter is sure to come back to haunt you. I'd think twice before continuing to hang around with him and his crew."

"And what if I'm getting close to him for my own purposes?" Daphne asked. "We _are_ the house of the cunning and ambitious, you know."

"We are," Draco agreed, his face assuming a mask of false pleasantry. "But there are _some others_ who would be much better to 'get close to'."

"Like she'd want to get closer to pond scum like you," another voice rang out through the hallway.

Daphne smiled as Tracey approached them, her eyes fixed on Malfoy. He, in turn, had turned his displeased gaze on her, though it was clear that Tracey was not fazed by it in the slightest. The animosity between Tracey and Malfoy was almost legendary in Slytherin house. Tracey considered him a pampered prince and an ineffectual dolt continually clinging to his father's coattails, an opinion which was certainly not grounded in anything other than the truth. For his part, Malfoy thought Tracey to be an upstart mongrel, only grudgingly accepted due to her father's wealth. The fact that Tracey was considered to be quite plain and took no thought to her appearance—though Daphne was aware that Tracey cleaned up rather well when she took the trouble to do so—did not help engender positive feelings in one so image obsessed as Malfoy.

"Of course," Tracey continued, pouring fuel onto the fire; she loved to rile Malfoy up, "our _esteemed housemate_ wouldn't know cunning if it walked up and punched him in the nose."

"No one asked for your opinion, Davis," Malfoy snarled.

"I'm well aware of that," responded Tracey airily. "You ought to know by now that I'm not concerned about waiting to be asked for my opinion."

"You'll be shown your place." With that, Malfoy pointed ignored Tracey and turned his attention back to Daphne. "This is what you get when you hang around with the wrong sort, Daphne. It's been overlooked in the past, but times are changing. You had better start thinking about that."

"Look, Malfoy, we're all aware that you're really talking about that idiot whose arse your father is always kissing. In case you weren't aware, the Greengrasses remained neutral in the last war, and I expect we will continue to do so."

Though he flushed with anger at the derogatory comments toward the Dark Lord, Malfoy kept his temper. "Your hanging with Potter seems to be changing that stance."

"Who I am friends with does not affect our political policies," Daphne retorted. "My father is head of house and he will continue to make the decisions for my family. I have joined Potter's group for my own reasons. My father is aware of my actions and is unconcerned by them."

Malfoy sidled closer to her and spoke in an earnest manner. "There will come a time when neutrality will no longer be tolerated. Regardless of what your father chooses to do, you can be insulated if you take the proper stance now. It wouldn't hurt to be seen on the arm of a Pureblood of good standing either."

With that statement, Malfoy's eye raked across her form with a lascivious leer, causing Daphne to experience a slight shudder. As always his gaze caused Daphne to feel the need to bathe, as she could almost feel the grime that the boy's expression produced.

"_A Pureblood of good standing_," repeated Tracey with a derisive snort. "You know, Malfoy, you have all the subtlety of rutting she-dragon."

"Methinks Mr. Malfoy here is a lot more Gryffindor than Slytherin," Daphne responded with a sly smirk.

His countenance reddening with anger, Malfoy appeared ready to retort when Daphne decided to cut him off and end the confrontation. "Why don't you just bugger off, Malfoy?" she sneered. "You haven't intimidated me in all the time we've been here. And even if either of us weren't able to take you out before, now that Potter is teaching us, you're just a gnat buzzing around and annoying us."

"Besides," Tracey continued, "it's clear that you barely know one end of your wand from the other. So unless you want your glorious Pureblood image to take a beating, I suggest you leave us alone."

"You'll pay for this," Malfoy growled. "Both of you."

"Well, I think we'll just take our chances," Daphne said negligently. "But you're welcome to try any time you like."

For a brief moment, Daphne thought that he would lose his composure, but whatever was holding him back, he appeared to gain control over himself quickly.

"It seems like we will not receive our chastisement today," said Tracey, evidently seeing what Daphne had seen. "Shall we?"

Daphne motioned to her friend to precede her, and the two left a red-faced Malfoy behind without a second glance. They walked down the corridor toward the common room and, seeing Parkinson skulking near the entrance, Daphne decided to get in one final dig.

"You'd better go and see your boyfriend, Parkinson," she said with a smirk. "He's having a bad day."

"And for that matter," Tracey chimed in, "you may want to give him some loving—I think he's starting to stray."

Pansy threw them a dark look before she hurried off down the hallway in search of her paramour. Tracey sniggered, ensuring, of course, that the rapidly retreating girl heard her, before shaking her head and turning away.

The common room was quite busy, as was typical for a Friday night, with pockets of students sitting in groups chatting, playing games, or even a few who were studying, though that group consisted primarily of upper-year students for whom NEWTs were looming large. The two, by unspoken agreement, made their way through the common room and towards the stairs which led to the dormitories—they both found the common room a trifle depressing, with its dark, almost gothic décor, and the unrelieved darkness, not to mention the company which was often present. The dorms were not a lot better, but at least they were private for the most part, and could be brightened by their own choices of decorations.

The girls' dorms were open and spacious, with curtains separating each girl's bed and private space. It was to Daphne's area of the room they retired, after confirming that no one else was present—Pansy was obviously off with Malfoy, while Bulstrode was nowhere in evidence. Hopefully, they would remain undisturbed for some time.

"So, I only caught a little of what Malfoy was saying," said Tracey, her bluntness refreshing after Malfoy's clever—or what he considered clever—innuendos. "It didn't sound like his usual speech."

"It was different," Daphne replied, frowning. "That bit about being seen on a Pureblood's arm was the first time he raised the subject."

"_That's_ different."

"And troublesome. Most of the time he's pretty transparent. What could he be up to?"

"Oh come on, Daphne, use your head," exclaimed Tracey. "Ten days ago he all but demands to be included in the club, and walks off in a snit when Harry told him to bugger off. Yesterday, I heard that he was giving Zabini grief about the club, and today he accosts you about it and hardly even puts any effort into trying to get into your knickers. Seems pretty plain to me what he's up to."

Daphne frowned. "You think he's trying to make trouble for us? On daddy's orders?"

"Though I obviously can't say for sure, I know for a fact that Malfoy doesn't wipe his arse without daddy's permission. I figure he was ordered to try to get into the club—though really they were stupid to go about it the way they did. Or maybe that's just Malfoy's stupidity fouling things up—I don't know. But now, after he's been refused, he's blathering about associating with the wrong sort to the Slytherin club members."

"I think you may be right," Daphne said, thinking about what Tracey had said. They had discussed briefly Malfoy's attempt to get Harry to allow him to enter the club, but at the time they had both brushed it off as his standard stupidity and not worth further thought. His behavior since then, however, while not overt, was still troublesome.

It was nothing less than they had expected, though, Daphne mused. For someone of his ilk, any fraternizing with Potter or any Gryffindors would be seen as a betrayal. With Malfoy's imagined stature in his own house, he would clearly see it as his duty to bring the traitors under his thumb. The fact that most of the rest of the house had basically ignored their membership in the club—and the fact that they had actually gained a couple more members!—rendered Malfoy's opinions largely irrelevant. If anyone other than Malfoy had cared about what they were doing, they may have had a real problem.

"So what do you think we should do?" Tracey asked.

"Tell Harry about it, and ignore the little ponce," Daphne responded with an offhand shrug. "Harry will likely want to pull his liver out through his nose, and we'll have to reassure him that we aren't afraid of Malfoy."

"Damn it!" Tracey exclaimed, with a certain gleeful gleam in her eyes. "Watching Malfoy's liver emerge through his nostril would be so entertaining. Don't you think we could let Harry do it? Even just a little?"

Laughing, Daphne shook her head. "How do you pull someone's liver out through their nose 'just a little'?"

"I'm sure Harry could find a way," was Tracey's response, which caused Daphne to laugh even harder. Tracey was blunt and forthright, and had a rather wicked sense of humor, which were all things that Daphne liked about her.

"Malfoy was right about one thing," Tracey continued in a much more serious tone. "The days of being safely neutral might be over."

"I know," responded Daphne quietly.

"Have you heard anything more from your family?"

Shaking her head, Daphne responded, "Not since the last letter from my mother. You?"

"They won't bother," Tracey scoffed. "They know that dad won't give them the time of day, considering what they think about mum. That doesn't mean that we won't be a target, though."

Daphne nodded glumly. Malfoy had not had the wit to see it, but one of Daphne's reasons for aligning herself with Potter was that she hoped that she would be able to gain some form of protection for her family by her association with him. On the surface, her family would still maintain the neutrality which had protected them in the first war with the Death Eaters, but in reality, this was the first step in the Greengrasses joining the side of the light. Of course Harry was still too young to offer them his personal protection, but he rubbed shoulders with the likes of Dumbledore, Sirius Black, who she was certain would become a force in their world, and the Delacours. None of those names were to be taken lightly.

Tracey's reasons were similar, though her family's situation was drastically different due to her mother being a Muggleborn. At least in the Death Eaters' eyes, the Greengrasses were suitably Pureblood. That would give them a reprieve, something which Tracey's family did not necessarily have.

"And what if Harry finds out that we've not been completely upfront with him?" Tracey asked.

"I can't believe that he'd tell us to get lost," Daphne responded. "Besides, we haven't been _untruthful_ with him—we just haven't told him everything. As Slytherins, we're allowed to conceal things. The whole 'house of the cunning' thing, remember?"

Tracey laughed. "That's such a useful out!"

"It is!" Daphne said with a grin. "But maybe I should tie myself to him a little tighter," she continued. "I'm sure I could get my dad to propose a marriage contract with him if I asked him to."

"I think you will have to wait in line," was Tracy's dry response. "If anyone's got the inside track into being the second Mrs. Potter, it would be Granger."

"He's the last of his line," Daphne answered, a trifle defensively. "He could have three wives as easily as he could two. And beside which—I like him. I think that once he was trained properly, he'd make a rather good husband, even if I was only one of three."

Tracey turned a serious gaze on Daphne, and reached out to take her hands, speaking with some concern. "Daphne, you should be really sure about this before you take such a step. Yes, Harry seems to be a good person, but you don't _really_ know him. We've only hung around with him for a couple of weeks. Don't rush into anything."

Smiling, Daphne moved to reassure her friend. "I'm not really serious, Tracey. I _do_ like him and I know I might have a shot, but things are a bit too early at this stage to consider that kind of move.

"But you have to admit the political advantages are enormous. I'd gain full protection for my family if I had an alliance with Potter through a betrothal. And he'd be gaining access to my family's resources and connections."

"True, but you're my friend and I'd prefer that you didn't sacrifice yourself when you may not need to do so. Give it some time and consider the implications before you commit."

By unspoken agreement they moved on to other discussion topics until Tracey announced her intention to go to bed much later that evening. Lying in her bed after her friend had gone to her own, Daphne considered the situation and Tracey's words. Her friend was right, Daphne knew, but a part of her could not help but imagine the thought of being on Harry's arm. He _was_ a good person—she knew that instinctively—and she knew that it would be very easy to allow herself to fancy him. The growth spurt he appeared to have had in the past few months had also helped, allowing him to fill out a little from the scrawny boy he had been when he had arrived at Hogwarts. And more than any of these factors, Daphne was certain that Harry had a big enough heart for both of them, and more, if things went in that direction.

Daphne also knew that though nothing had been said in any of the letters she had exchanged with her family since she had joined the club, her parents would not have missed the possibility of having their eldest betrothed to Potter. It was something they would almost certainly be discussing once she returned home during the holidays.

But despite all this, there were two things in particular holding Daphne back—a blonde and a brunette. Fleur was already his betrothed, and the woman was absolutely gorgeous—though she knew that Harry was not completely shallow, it was also evident that the blonde would have no trouble at all keeping him interested. And whereas the relationship between the two had seemed to be stuck in neutral for the first few months of the school year, it appeared to have blossomed in the past few weeks, lending credence to the theory that they were quickly becoming used to one another, and that their affection for each other was growing.

And as for Hermione, well she was one of his first friends in the Wizarding world—or one of his first friends at all, if the rumors Daphne had heard were at all correct—and Daphne suspected that their relationship was profound. She could have Harry in her thrall with little effort, if only she would give herself the trouble.

Where did that leave Daphne? She knew she was attractive, though not on the same level as Fleur, and she knew that she was pleasant and intelligent company, though she did not have the emotional attachment which Hermione possessed. That did not necessarily mean that the attachment could not be forged, but it did leave her at a distinct disadvantage in the near future.

And what of Ginevra Weasley? Daphne considered herself very good at reading others, and she knew that Ginny had her sights set on Harry, regardless of the existence of any other girl. Even Ginny had a greater familiarity with Harry.

Daphne _knew_ Harry had a big heart. But it would be more than a little daunting to contend with so many factors at once, and Daphne was not certain that she even wished to attempt it. The possibility for heartbreak appeared to be high unless she were to attempt to attach herself to him as nothing more than a business merger. But she wanted more from life and marriage than that.

Sighing, Daphne rolled over and, after bunching up her pillow, determined to allow herself to fall asleep. The situation with Harry would work itself out and Daphne knew that Tracey's advice about not rushing into anything was good. She would just have to get to know him better. Then she would know how to act.

* * *

Harry's reaction to Malfoy's actions was not far off from what Daphne and Tracey had predicted it to be. The little twit had done his best to make life miserable for Harry since he had arrived at Hogwarts and frankly, Harry had just about had enough of it.

But now he was harassing Harry's friends, and making things difficult for them, and for a young boy who had grown up with no friends due to the efforts of his cousin, he had learned the benefits of having friends and was determined to protect them. Upon hearing Tracey and Daphne's story, his first inclination had been to hunt the prick down and use his head for target practice.

It did not help that their disclosures had been made after the conclusion of the last club meeting before winter break, and rather than teach anything new, Harry had contented himself with reviewing what they had already done and admonished the club to keep up their practice over the holidays. As a result, he was feeling quite energetic and restless. He found that he was quite eager to repeat the lesson that Malfoy just never seemed to learn.

Fortunately—for a certain blond ponce, perhaps—the two Slytherin girls who he was rapidly coming to consider friends, assured him that they had no need of his protection.

"Harry, why have you been teaching us?" Tracey asked bluntly, neatly cutting off a head of steam which Harry was beginning to accumulate.

Blinking his eyes, Harry looked at the brunette Slytherin who had interrupted him, desperately trying to come up with an answer. Unfortunately, he had been so focused on Malfoy and his impending humbling, that it was taking him a moment to reengage his brain.

"He's teaching you to defend yourselves," interjected Hermione, taking pity on Harry and answering in his stead.

"What does that have to do with hexing Malfoy to Hogsmeade and back?" asked Ron who was standing nearby and listening intently to the conversation. Trust Ron to back him up, Harry thought—Ron was perhaps the only one who disliked Malfoy more than Harry did himself.

"It's rather obvious, brother of ours," one of the twins piped up.

"Since Harry is teaching them to defend themselves," continued the other, "they need to use those skills and defend themselves against Malfoy."

"Exactly," said Daphne. "Otherwise, he'll never respect us. We'd just be targets when Harry isn't around if he's constantly leaping in to defend us."

"Like the idiot has ever learned a lesson anyway," Harry grumbled.

"True," answered Daphne. "But I think the lesson, even if it is not absorbed, is likely to mean more from us than it would from you. Malfoy already knows that _you_ can kick his butt!"  
"Not like that's ever stopped him," Harry muttered.

"Another thing you need to consider," said Tracey, "is that any of us was more than a match for him before we joined the club. Now that we've been attending for a while, he'd be even more overmatched. Trust us, Harry—we can handle ourselves when it comes to Malfoy."

Though he complained a little more, Harry grudgingly admitted that they were right. The git would still bear watching though—Harry would not put it past him to attempt to ambush his friends in some manner. If he tried _that_ tactic, Harry would be all too happy to ensure he required the attention of Poppy Pomfrey.

"There, Tracey, I told you he could be reasonable," Daphne said in a sly tone.

"I'm not the one who said he'd want to remove Malfoy's liver."

"Through his nose, Tracey," was Daphne's lighthearted reply. "You have to remember that part. And after all, you were the one who said he might be able to do it 'just a little'."

A gleam in his eye, Harry interjected, "You know, _that is_ worth considering…"

"All right, that's enough," Fleur interrupted, but though she attempted to affect a frown, Harry could easily see the mirth in her eyes. "If you teach the jerk a lesson the professors will almost certainly be obliged to put you in detention, even if they don't like the creep any more than you do. You'll just have to hold your temper."

"Yes dear," said Harry with a smirk, allowing himself to be led toward the exit.

"You are so henpecked," said Ron with a snigger.

"Maybe I am," was Harry's good-natured response, "but you _wish_ you were."

As they departed, Harry was amused to see the contemplative expression on Ron's face, and he did not miss the redhead's last words.

"I don't know about _that_, but it does appear to have its advantages."

* * *

Among the disadvantages to having a betrothed, however—not to mention, it appeared, to being part of the Wizarding world—was the necessity of being known to society, and as Harry's family had generally been prominent for many years, his engagement to Fleur was a general topic of discussion. Add to that his elevated status as Boy-Who-Lived and the mystique of Fleur being Veela—who were almost unknown in Britain—and the curious bordered sometimes on the intrusive. Though Dumbledore had ensured him that his mail was being screened by the castle's house elves, Harry understood that his mail sometimes numbered in the hundreds, from simple well-wishing cards, to requests to meet, to proposals of business, as though a teen of fifteen had anything to do with business.

The day after the club meeting, a letter arrived which put all this into focus for Harry, and he did not really like where it was headed. It was a letter from Fleur's father, suggesting—though perhaps it was a _little stronger_ than a mere suggestion—that they hold a ball on New Year's Eve, so that Harry and Fleur could be introduced to British Magical society as a couple. Needless to say Harry, as a young teen, and already having a ball to attend before he left Hogwarts, was not exactly enthralled with the idea.

"Another ball?" he demanded, once he had read the offending letter. "Why would we need to go to another ball?"

To his side, Fleur sighed. "Harry, magical society is not precisely…"

"Modern?" Hermione piped up.

"Exactly," Fleur responded with a smile at Hermione. "British society is stuck in the… I believe you would call it Regency period, or maybe even the Victorian."

"Well, it depends what you mean," Hermione interrupted, her voice taking on her familiar lecturing tone. "The official Regency Period started in 1811 when George IV decided that his father, George III, was unfit to rule. He ruled as Prince Regent in his father's stead until George III died in 1820, and from that time forward as the actual king. However, the term Regency Era, often refers to a longer period, from the late 1700s, until George IV's brother William—who was king after George IV—died in 1837, and Queen Victoria's reign began, which, of course, was the start of the Victorian era."

Glazed eyes and perplexed looks appeared the order of the day after Hermione's long-winded explanation wound down and Hermione, suddenly realized that she had fallen into old habits and lectured them all, went crimson with embarrassment.

"I liked Jane Austen as a girl, and researched that stuff so I could better understand her books," she mumbled.

Harry, who was sitting beside her, pulled her into a one-armed hug, and affectionately kissed her cheek. "Don't ever change, Hermione," he said, amused to see her suddenly shift into a bashful state.

The rest of the group were all smirking at her, and Hermione, noticing this, rolled her eyes and once again became businesslike. "The Magical world is more Regency than Victorian, from what I've seen," said Hermione. "Though it's a little different from that too. Makes sense, I suppose, considering the Magical world had been separated from the Muggle world for several centuries before. The Magical world does not have the same level of societal rules or the concept of propriety which existed at the time of the Regency era, but the attitudes seem similar to a degree."

"I get it," said Harry. "We are a couple hundred years behind Muggle society. What of it?"

"Part of the rules of society back then was the idea of being known to society, or being introduced," Hermione continued the explanation. "It was regarded as a necessary rite of passage into adulthood as, if you were not 'out', or introduced to the world at large, you could not participate in society. This is similar, I would guess, as it will introduce you not only as future head of House Potter, but also Fleur as your future lady. In many respects this introduction to society was very important to the future of the person, or couple, as the impression they created was remembered."

"And as a member of a family which has been influential for many years, this will set the tone for your future dealings with the elite of British society," continued Fleur. "France is the same in many respects, and the Magical world in general is many years behind the Muggle, partially due to the very conservative ideologies which pervade the magical world, but also because Magicals are longer lived than Muggles. A person has longer to remember the way things were when they were young, and this coupled with the conservative mindset makes us much more resistant to change."

"What of Muggleborns?" Harry demanded. "They come from a completely different world."

"True," said Fleur, "but Muggleborns are also not highly regarded in most parts of the world, though Britain is certainly at the extreme end of the spectrum. Purebloods as a rule do not trust Muggleborns and their new and radical ideas, and as they essentially rule the Magical world, newcomers either must fit in, or live in the Muggle world."

"They're right, Harry," chimed in Ron who had been listening to the discussion. "You know my family is not well off. But even so, we are considered higher on the societal scale than a Muggleborn family, as we are Pureblood. Still, even though I am higher on the social scale that a Muggleborn, I don't belong to the same social strata as the Potters and unless we kept our friendship after Hogwarts, we wouldn't rub shoulders socially with you because of the differences in our wealth."

Hermione, it appeared, was outraged. "So as a Muggleborn, I won't have the same opportunities as Purebloods?"

"That's not completely true," said Ron. "There are many Muggleborn successes. They are always looked on with a certain measure of disdain, due to their origins. But you already knew this."

"I did," said Hermione as she bit her lip in thought. "But I always thought that there was the opportunity for advancement if I was willing to learn and work hard."

"There is," said Fleur. "But there will always be that divide, and some among the Purebloods will never accept you because of your origins.

"Then that would be like the land owners versus the merchant class in regency times," said Hermione slowly, apparently in deep thought. "Gentlemen farmers were considered part of the higher class while merchants, even if they were very rich, were looked down upon due to the origins of their wealth. Even if they purchased their own estates and became landed, merchants faced a long road before they were truly welcomed. A merchant could anticipate his descendents finally being accepted without the stain of being 'new money', but not until four or five generations had passed."

"That's a good analogy," said Fleur. "But even within the gentlemen class, there were differences which are analogous to Magical society today. The Weasleys, for example, are considered to be among the humblest of the Pureblood class, which would put them on the level of small estate holding gentlemen of the Regency era. Technically, they are socially even with their richer counterparts, but in reality, a wide gulf divides them. Harry, with his background and family, would be on the wealthy end of the spectrum, analogous to the wealthy of the gentleman class, or perhaps even to the level of minor nobility. To a certain extent, it's wealth that matters, as well as pedigree."

"So the Weasleys are the Bennets, while the Potters are like the Darcys?" asked Hermione.

"Exactly," said Fleur with a grin. She then winked at Hermione's incredulous expression and said, "I enjoyed Jane Austen as a girl too. Not all old Magical families disdain Muggle culture and literature, you know."

"What of women?" asked Harry. "In the Muggle world it's only been in the past seventy years or so that women have begun to close the equality gap with men."

"In that subject, the Magical world has always been ahead of their Muggle counterparts," said Fleur.

"It probably has to do with the fact that a woman can hex your bits off if you suggest that she's inferior," joked Ron.

"Actually, that's part of it," agreed Fleur with a grin at the young redhead. "As far as anyone has ever been able to determine, there is no correlation between gender and magical ability. Add to that the fact that for many hundreds of years witches were the more visible of magical practitioners, and for many years were the main potions brewers, makers of certain charms, among other things. It has made for relative equality between the sexes."

It made sense from a certain point of view, Harry supposed. And he was not truly opposed to the idea of a ball—in fact the idea of being close to Fleur for an evening was quite appealing, the closer they became. It was just the thought of being on display, as he thought of it, which did not appeal to him.

"Oh come on, Harry," Hermione interrupted his musings with a measure of mirth, "you're not going to go all Mr. Darcy and refuse to dance, now, are you? I wouldn't think that Fleur can be described as being not handsome enough for you."

Laughing, Fleur composed her expression into a haughty air of disdain and said, "She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt _me!_"

The two girls broke down in laughter and though Harry was not familiar with the obviously quoted line, never having read the book, the implications were obvious. He grinned back at the laughing girls, saying, "I would rather think that _she_ would be saying that about _me_."

"Oh, you're more than merely tolerable," Fleur replied while putting an arm around his waist. "I think you'll do just fine."

Harry grinned back at her. "So what you're telling me, in a roundabout way, is that I don't really have a choice"

"Oh, come on, Harry," said Fleur with a smile. "You always have a choice. But surely a night of dancing with me is not _too much_ of a punishment."

Harry smiled and looked at her with some affection, before executing a rather elaborate bow. "May I have the honor of escorting you to your father's ball, Madam?"

"I think that would be unavoidable, as it will be in our honor."

"Maybe so," said Harry, "but I'd prefer not to take the chance of your being snapped up by some other, much less dapper, young man."

Ignoring his obvious attempt at conceit, Fleur smiled and place her arm in his. "I would be more than happy to accompany you, good sir. I thank you for favoring me with your attention."

* * *

_Updated 06/28/2013  
_


	28. Chapter 27 – A Better Ball

**Chapter 26 – A Better Ball**

The Saturday before the end of term was the final Hogsmeade weekend of the year. Perhaps more importantly, it was the final opportunity for the students to purchase a few items which always seemed to be required to make the best impression on others at a social event as important as the Yule Ball. Or, to be more precise, the _female_ members of Hogwarts' student population needed to purchase a few final items. To the male students, such things were a matter of supreme indifference, though only the densest of them would have said such a thing within hearing of any young lady.

Harry and his friends had gone together to the village and the hustle and bustle of High Street was beyond what would generally be seen most weekends where the students were allowed to go. In particular, and unsurprisingly, Gladrags was the busiest, with many students purchasing their accessories, and some complete outfits even, though Honeydukes, Zonko's, and the other shops in the village all saw their fair share of traffic. Harry could not help but imagine that the merchants of Hogsmeade were grateful for the newly formed tradition, as it guaranteed that the students would be in a frenzy of buying in preparation for the ball.

"What about this one, Harry?"

Startled, Harry stared up at the face of his amused betrothed, wondering if his expression was as vacant as he imagined it was. Having sat there for the past half hour while she rummaged through baubles and accessories, Harry's attention had quickly wandered, and now he was uncertain as to what he was being asked.

"I think we've lost Harry's attention," Hermione said with a smirk. She had appeared from behind Fleur, with an expression which matched the one which currently graced the French witch's face.

"All right; you don't need to gang up on me," Harry grumbled under his breath.

Hermione's chuckle mingled with Fleur's silvery laugh. "All right, Harry, I think that's just about enough," said Fleur, finally taking pity on Harry. "Hermione and I will go and pay for our items, and we can move on."

Gratefully, Harry nodded and waited for a few moments while the ladies settled their accounts before he escorted them out into the street and on to the next shop. While the three had come to the village with all of their friends, the group had had different priorities, and most had separated to their different destinations upon arrival, agreeing to meet back at the Three Broomsticks later, and leaving Harry with his two closest female friends.

They made their way down the street to their next stop, the very small premises of Hogsmeade's only florist, Roses and Blooms. Though it was not a tradition in the Wizarding world, Harry had thought it would be nice for Fleur to wear a corsage to the ball, and they had decided on a nice wrist corsage which would go with her dress and complement Harry's robes. In truth, it had taken little persuasion to induce her to accept it—she _was_ a woman, after all, and in Harry's limited experience, most women liked flowers. Even his aunt, who had at times not even seemed very feminine to Harry, almost melted the rare times that Vernon had brought home flowers for her.

It was at the florist where Harry had a slightly unusual conversation with Fleur which left him scratching his head.

"Harry," she said in a low voice, "why don't you get Hermione a corsage too?"

Hermione was at that moment admiring a beautiful, if odd, bloom on the far side of the room. This flower was obviously magical, considering the rainbow of petals, surrounding a center which was an amazingly bright shade of pink.

Sensing from Fleur's tone of voice that she did not want Hermione to overhear their conversation, Harry responded, matching Fleur's tone. "What? Why?"

Laughing lightly at what Harry could only assume with amusement at his cluelessness, Fleur put a hand on his arm and favored him with a bright smile. "She's your closest friend, Harry—I think it would be a nice gesture."

Now Harry was by no means any sort of Casanova—his experiences with Fleur were quite obviously his first in a romantic relationship with any female. But regardless of his lack of experience, he was aware of the fact that a corsage was given to a woman by the man who was escorting her to a function, and the type of flower often said something about his intentions, or their status. As Harry was going with Fleur, would it not seem odd for him to give Hermione a corsage as well?

Well, perhaps it was not quite as Harry had stated. In fact, they had all agreed to go as a group, as most of the group was officially unattached. Of course it was obvious that Harry and Fleur were together, and Neville and Luna, though nothing had been said openly, had begun spending a considerable amount of time in one another's company. The twins were also seeing Angelina and Alicia as well, though in a very understated manner for the usually irrepressible duo. Still, if they all went as a group, no one would be left out and as Daphne had pointed out, there were more girls than guys, so this way it would be equitable and the girls would have to share. That still did not change the fact in Harry's mind that regardless of semantics, he and Fleur _were_ going together.

As such, he voiced his thoughts, rather ineloquently, even to his own ears. "But Fleur, I'm going with you."

"That's not exactly true," was Fleur's reply.

"Technically it is," Harry insisted. "I'll spend most of the evening with you, and our relationship is hardly a secret."

"So what if it is or isn't?"

Harry regarded her as though she was daft—Fleur knew more about the Muggle world than she was letting on. "Giving a corsage to a woman is usually done when she's your date. And despite this 'going as a group' thing we've cooked up, _you are_ my date."

"Perhaps, but I don't think corsages are strictly for one's date," Fleur responded. "Besides, they are not really used in the Magical world, Harry. No one will know what it means. You can use it simply as a gesture of your friendship."

"Hermione will," Harry countered.

"So?" said Fleur. "Tell her it's a mark of your esteem and in thanks for her continued support. And besides, Harry, she's a beautiful girl. I think it's a mark of your affection and esteem that you would offer to get her a flower. She is your best friend."

Now Harry was becoming truly uncomfortable. Again, though he was not a complete dolt, he was aware of the fact that a girl would consider another getting too close to her boyfriend a rival, and would react accordingly. Fleur, however, appeared to be completely oblivious to the fact that she was talking Hermione's desirability up with all this talk of beauty and other attributes. Harry already knew his best friend was a very desirable girl—with the way Hermione had blossomed over the past year, he would have to have been blind _not_ to notice. But he could never be with Hermione and would prefer to focus his attention on Fleur so he did not get… _distracted_.

"Umm, Fleur, aren't you… I mean… that is to say…" Pausing, Harry pulled a hand through his hair in agitation, wondering how he could possibly articulate his question. A glance at Fleur and he was astonished, as the blonde seemed to be laughing at him. Laughing! Did she not know that this was a serious matter?

"Fleur, you know I have no interest in Hermione, right?"

"Oh?" Fleur said with a raised eyebrow.

Harry ignored the nervous butterflies fluttering around in his stomach and responded, "She's just a friend."

"Harry," Fleur chided, "_I'm_ the one who suggested you get her a flower. I wasn't implying anything by it. I'm sure she'd appreciate it."

So it was that Harry ended up purchasing _two_ corsages from the florist shop. And though Hermione was obviously appreciative of the gesture, Harry did not miss the long look his friend directed at his betrothed when the offer was made. This, of course, did not help Harry understand the situation any further, but when the girls turned their attention to the blooms their enthusiasm helped the awkward moment dissipate. In the end, they chose a pale yellow rose surrounded by small pink carnations, symbolizing friendship and love for Fleur, while Hermione received yellow rose with white carnations, symbolizing the same friendship, but loyalty and faithfulness as well.

Privately, Harry thought the flowers would look beautiful on the wrists of the two ladies, and though they would not tell him what their gowns looked like—or even their colors—they assured him that the flowers would complement them nicely. The rest of the afternoon, Harry spent in blissful contemplation, looking forward to the time he would finally see them.

* * *

"What was that all about?" Hermione hissed.

They had arrived at the Three Broomsticks and were sitting in one of the booths, and as Harry had left to visit the men's room, Hermione finally had a chance to demand what Fleur had been about with the flowers. It could not have been _Harry's _idea, after all—even _he_ could not be _that_ clueless.

Raising an eyebrow, Fleur replied in an exasperatingly mild tone, "What was what all about?"

"The flowers," Hermione sputtered, gesturing futilely. Hermione really liked her friend—they were almost to the point where they shared everything—but one of the things about Fleur which absolutely infuriated Hermione was her tendency to act innocent and sometimes downright stupid when she did not wish to speak about something, or knew that she had done something Hermione would not like.

"What, you don't like flowers?"

Hermione glared at her willful obtuseness. "You know what I'm talking about Fleur. Are you trying to push Harry toward me?"

"Perhaps you need a little push."

"Please don't do this, Fleur," Hermione begged. "I need to figure this on my own, and it's never going to happen if you interfere."

Fleur sighed and followed it up with a wry smile. "I won't, Hermione. I know that it is difficult for you. Part of me hopes that you will get on with this, but I know you need time. The flowers are really an understated thing, you know—no harm will come of it."

At that moment, Harry returned to the table, and the rest of their friends started wandering into the pub, so Hermione had to be satisfied with the answer she received. She would not, however, stop watching her friend for any untoward behavior. Thus far Fleur had been very respectful of her need to decide this on her own and had not pushed. She supposed that the suggestion of the corsage was nothing more than Fleur had said it was, but Hermione could not help but suppose that it had been motivated—even if unknowingly—by a desire to induce Harry to see Hermione as she was—as a girl, rather than simply a best friend. So far Harry had not seemed to clue in to that possible ulterior motive, which suited Hermione just fine. She _would not_ allow herself to be pushed into a decision before she was ready.

And to be honest, Hermione wondered why Fleur was so set on creating this match. She _could_ have Harry to herself, after all, without any need to push a second wife on him. She appeared cheerful about it for the most part, but there were times when she let her guard down slightly, and Hermione could not be so certain that she truly wanted this. She was never overt, and brushed off any suggestion that they should take it slower, but that did not mean that she was completely happy about it. But she seemed to have settled on having Hermione become another wife and pursued it with determination.

Another awkward moment—for Hermione, anyway—occurred early the next morning. Though mail was often light on a Sunday, most families tending to write to their charges on the weekend and send it so the mail arrived on Monday, that morning saw Fleur receive a short letter from her father. Hermione watched her as she opened it, noting the smile and the growing excitement with interest. It was not until Fleur turned to her that Hermione had any inkling that the letter had anything to do with her.

"My parents would like to invite you and your family to Chateau Delacour for Christmas," she said, her excitement coming out in a bubbly sort of way, which Hermione had rarely seen in the older girl.

Startled, Hermione said nothing for several moments, though she did catch odd looks from both Ron and Ginny. She immediately understood—the Weasleys had had Harry for Christmas in the past and even knowing that he would be spending it with Fleur and her family this year, it was likely a bit of a shock that they would not see him on that day.

"Are you sure?" she finally responded. She was hesitant to accept, knowing that Harry still needed time with Fleur and her family—time to get to know them and become more comfortable with them. Hermione would just be in the way in that endeavor.

"Absolutely, Hermione. My parents like yours very much, and we would all be very happy if you would join us."

"You should go, Hermione," Ron spoke up. It was sudden and startling for Hermione that he should speak up in such a fashion. Ron, however, did not notice her hesitation. "You've never spent a Christmas with Harry before—well except last year, and then we were all preoccupied with the ball and everything that went with it."

Harry immediately voiced his support for the plan and Hermione directed a smile at both him and Ron, all the while feeling a little ashamed of herself. She had almost expected Ron to go on one of his jealous snits that _she_ had been invited to spend the holidays with Harry, but _he_ had not. She had not taken into account the fact that Ron had improved remarkably in the past few months; she resolved to do better in the future.

"But wouldn't you like to have Harry alone for the holidays?" Hermione asked in one last feeble attempt. "He's joining _your_ family, after all."

Laughing, Fleur replied, "Actually I think it's more accurate to say that _I_ am joining _his_ family. But Harry and I have come a long way," she continued, directing a smile at Harry and taking his hand in her own, "and I think we can manage the distraction you would be."

Pretending affront, Hermione glared back at her friend. "In that case, I don't see how I could not serve as your… distraction."

Laughs echoed around the table, and Hermione smirked at a now complaisant Fleur. "I will have to ask my parents, of course."

"Of course," Fleur responded graciously.

"I'm glad you are considering it, Hermione," Harry said with a warm smile, and Hermione suddenly felt the butterflies fluttering in her stomach again. Harry had never realized the devastating effect of his smiles on half the girls in Hogwarts, and certainly not on herself. If he had, Hermione was certain he would quit smiling altogether, disliking the attention as much as he did. Moreover, she was very afraid that if he ever did learn how they affected _her_ in particular, that she would not survive the experience.

And so it was done. Within a few days, Hermione had her reply from her parents—delivered by the ever-dependable Hedwig, whose services Harry had offered for the task. Her parents replied that they would be delighted to accept their invitation. And Hermione found that she could not but anticipate it keenly; a Christmas spent in the company of her parents, her best friend, and her closest girl friend. What could be better?

* * *

The Yule Ball was in full swing and had been for several hours when Harry sank down into one of the chairs, grateful for the respite. He had danced nearly every dance that evening, with just about all of his friends, and had surprised himself by enjoying the festivities immensely. Given his experience at the _last_ ball he had attended, he would have thought he would not have had a good time, but apparently the ability to choose one's own partner, rather than accepting one out of desperation—while pining after another girl—and the fact that he was not now the center of attention, worked wonders for his enjoyment. Hermione and Fleur, with whom he had spent the bulk of the ball, had just gone to refresh themselves, and Harry was happy for the respite which allowed him to rest for a few minutes.

"Well look who has deigned to join us mere mortals," Ron jibed good-naturedly from his side. The group of friends had commandeered a couple of tables to one side and sat there whenever they were not engaged in dancing. In addition to Ron, one of the twins was also present—his other half was somewhere on the dance floor—as well as Tracey, Ginny, Susan, and some of the other club members were sitting at nearby tables as well.

"I didn't know you were so much of a dancing machine, Harry," Ron continued in a teasing tone. "I'm not sure you've sat down the entire night."

"Not a whole lot," Harry agreed, feeling lethargic and companionable in the company of his friends. "I seem to have been in demand a lot tonight."

Tracey snorted. "When you speak like that, it's no wonder most of my house thinks you have a big head."

Lifting a glass in salute, Harry took a swig of his drink before setting it down. "That's because most of your house has never tried to get closer. I'm actually quite pleasant and rather dashing when you get to know me."

Another louder snort and roll of the eyes was all the answer Harry was to receive. He waggled his eyebrows and grinned at the girl, noting the fact that when Tracey actually took the time and effort to do something about her appearance, she was actually rather pleasant to look at. He suspected she did not care much to please others, though part of her reticence might have been because she knew that she would never equal her closest friend in looks—Daphne was, after all, a very pretty girl.

In fact, he thought with a chuckle, he was not the only one who had noticed the beautiful Slytherin. From his first sight of her that evening, Ron had seemed smitten, and hardly able to take her eyes from her. Predictably, Daphne had rebuffed Ron's efforts to become "better acquainted", though Harry had not missed her secret smile at having an effect on the boy. They had danced a couple of times that evening, but if Harry were a betting man, he'd wager that no romance would result between the two. Daphne was a rather refined girl and Ron, while he'd certainly made progress, _was_ still rough around the edges. He likely always would be, Harry thought fondly.

"Your vision in blue returns," the twin at the table spoke up, interrupting Harry's reverie, and he looked up and saw Hermione and Fleur making their way around the edges of the room towards him. He was once again struck by just how lovely they both were and was reminded of his reaction upon first seeing them.

* * *

Harry waited in the Gryffindor common room, pulling a little at the collar of his shirt. He was uncertain how a garment which had been worn by men for centuries could be so uncomfortable, and with the black bowtie, which seemed an indispensible accessory to the suit he was wearing, it seemed all the more uncomfortable and constricting. His suit was similar to that from the previous year, but of better cut and finer material. He had stayed with the mainstays of black trousers and a black jacket, over which he wore a long wizard's cape. The only article of his clothing, other than the shirt, which was not black, was the smart royal blue waistcoat he was wearing, an item Fleur had insisted upon. She told him it would go nicely with her ball dress, and Harry was not about to argue with his betrothed.

Ron was waiting with him, thankfully dressed in a set of black robes of his own and _not_ in the awful old robes he had had the previous year, as were the rest of his group of friends. Or the boys were, at least—the girls had not yet seen fit to join them; understandable, Harry supposed, due to the great effort they seemed to take with their appearance. Privately, though he would never say it to _any_ of the girls of his acquaintance, he was glad it was the fairer sex who had to put up with such things as makeup and the like. Not only did it make them even more pleasant to look at, but it also meant that _he_ did not have to deal with it himself.

They had waited for some time, lounging in the chairs in the common room and making small talk, when Neville, whom Harry had noticed becoming more impatient all the time, suddenly stood from his chair. "I'm going to go to the Ravenclaw common room and meet Luna. I'll see you all at the hall."

Though he managed his declaration with credible composure, he certainly could not have missed the snickers and the knowing looks which were directed at him as he exited the room. The shy Gryffindor had been gaining confidence and his interest in the flighty Ravenclaw had not gone unnoticed.

A noise on the stairs caught Harry's attention, and he looked up to see Angelina descend to the common room, followed by Alicia and Katie. They all looked smart in their dresses, and very pretty indeed. Harry, however, could not suppress a sting of disappointment that it had not been Fleur.

Angelina, apparently noticing his reaction, smiled at him merrily. "Don't worry, Harry; she's almost ready."

"Shall we stay around and watch as his eyes fall out of his head when she comes down?" Katie asked in a stage whisper.

Sniggers met Katie's comment, and Harry glared at her severely, which, of course, did nothing to suppress her mirth.

"Of course," Alicia said between giggles. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Over the next few moments, more Gryffindor girls descended the stairs, and though they were all dressed up and looked amazing, Harry had eyes for only one girl. It was, therefore, only a few moments later when she stepped down into the common room. Though he had known that he would be amazed, the fact was he was almost struck dumb with awe by just how wonderful she looked.

If she had been beautiful the previous year in her silver dress, this year she was positively breathtaking in her sky blue gown, a color which perfectly set off her fair skin and flowing blond hair. The gown was modest, though it had a touch of daring, as it had just one strap over her left shoulder, fitting tightly around her bust. It was gathered at the waist, and spilled down in pleated waves around her legs. The dress was accentuated by a wrap of the same shade as his waistcoat which was draped over her shoulders. Her hair was pulled up into an elaborate pile on the top of her head, and the earrings in her ears chimed as she moved. She was, in a word, beautiful.

And then she stepped aside and Hermione descended, and Harry felt all the air leave his lungs once again. The intervening year of growth and maturity had done wonders for Hermione. The previous year she had looked pretty in her blue dress; this year, she was amazing. The dress was a darker shade than the previous year, approaching a midnight blue. It was cut in an empire style, with the waist just below her breasts, from whence it spilled own her body in straight waves, hanging down to her ankles and shimmering in the light. Rather than do her hair up as she had done the previous year, she had gathered it in a knot at the base of her neck and allowed it to fall freely down her back. She looked enchanting and, Harry noticed distractedly, _her_ dress _also_ complemented his waistcoat nicely.

"Oh, Fleur, I think you broke him," said Hermione quietly, as they approached him. They were close enough that Harry did not think the rest of the room had overheard her comment, though further snickers were in evidence at his obvious reaction.

"_We_ broke him," Fleur replied, the smugness in her voice unmistakable.

Hermione swatted at Fleur with mock displeasure before turning back to Harry and meeting his eyes. Though he had the impression that Fleur had meant for him to notice them both and was not put off in the slightest by his admiration of Hermione, in addition to herself, now was not the time to consider such things. Indeed, any rational thought seemed beyond him at the moment, swallowed up in the brilliance of the two dazzling enchantresses who stood before him.

Moving before he had any real conscious intention of doing so, Harry stepped forward and, taking Fleur's hands in his own, he leaned forward and kissed her, almost shocking himself in the process. The Harry of old would never have made such a blatant and open display of emotion.

"You look wonderful, my dear," he said as his lips grazed hers. "You will be the most beautiful girl at the ball."

He had not thought the confident and self assured Fleur knew how to blush, but her cheeks and neck immediately bloomed, and she shyly returned his gaze and murmured her thanks. Harry was left wondering just how _far down_ her blush extended. He then immediately shook his head mentally to free himself of that random thought, and returned her smile, noting to himself that regardless of his reactions or feelings, she was a wonderful girl who deserved his respect, and thinking in such a manner was _not in any way_ respectful. At least at this point in their relationship…

Harry then turned to Hermione, who had been watching their display with amusement, and drew her forward to kiss her cheek. "I am amazed how much more beautiful you become every year, Hermione."

As if on cue, Hermione's cheeks immediately matched Fleur's and though she appeared unable to respond, her brilliant smile more than made up for it.

Turning, Harry grasped the two boxes which had sat beside him on the chair, all the while hearing the murmur of the other students in the room. Comments such as, "How romantic!" or, "When did our Harry become such a charmer?" echoed through his ears. But while he was normally reluctant to be in the spotlight, he decided that at this moment he simply did not care.

He pulled out the corsages, grateful for the kind witch at the shop who had put a stasis charm on them to keep them fresh, and fastened one on Fleur's wrist, and then the other on Hermione's. He then put the boxes aside and, smiling at the girls, extended one arm to each, and said, "Shall we?"

They exited the room and with their friends in tow, made their way down the stairways toward the Great Hall. Harry used this time to clear his head of the muddle it had become, and to try to affect a more confident demeanor. It would not do to appear in the hall like a slobbering baboon, after all.

They had almost arrived when Ron sidled up to him, Hermione having dropped back to speak with Ginny. "Hey Harry, what's with the flowers?"

"It's a Muggle tradition," Harry replied. "At most formal occasions, a guy will get his girl a corsage for her to wear. The flowers can have special meaning as well."

"Then why did you get one for Hermione?"

Ron's tone was somewhat suspicious, but Harry, not really wanting to think about the matter further, deflected him with the answer which he and Fleur had discussed in the flower shop.

"She's always been my biggest supporter, Ron. I got her one in thanks for her friendship and help."

Though Ron's eyebrows furrowed in thought, he immediately nodded and smiled at Harry. "Well that's okay then, I guess."

Exaggeratedly, and with a certain level of satisfaction at the ability to tweak his friend's nose, Harry slapped Ron on the back. "Sorry, Ron—I didn't think you'd appreciate the flowers. Otherwise, I'd have gotten some for you too."

Ron's answering glare was enough to send both Fleur and Harry into gales of laughter. He walked away from them, feigning an injured air, saying, "Merlin! The guy gets a pretty girlfriend and suddenly he thinks he's a comedian."

* * *

Smiling to himself, Harry rose and greeted to the two girls, daring to bend and put a kiss on each of their hands, amid the sighs and giggles of the nearby girls. They both sat at the table and the group descended into chatter, while Harry gazed about him, taking in the sights and sounds of his second Yule Ball. The scene in the Great Hall was similar, yet subtly different from the previous year. While the theme still centered on winter, and the icy decorations and falling snow still dominated, there was more of a hint of reds and greens throughout the hall. In particular, the trees were decked with gaily sparkling red garlands and blue fairy lights and the icicles and snowflakes twinkled with a decidedly red and greenish hue. It was all done in an understated fashion, but it served to brighten and bring warmth to the room, which had been clearly cold, though beautiful, the previous winter. Harry wondered if the colors were meant to represent some Muggle Christmas traditions, and then if the Purebloods were aware of the fact that red and green were the de facto Christmas colors in the Muggle world. A quick glance at Malfoy, who was seated on the other side of the hall, revealed nothing, though the blond did not appear to be staring at Harry with anything more than his _usual_ level of rancor. Professor Dumbledore did not reveal anything to Harry's quick glance either, as he merely smiled and winked before turning back to his conversation with Professor McGonagall.

Shrugging, and not considering the matter of any real importance, Harry turned his attention back to his friends. The current number had ended, and many of the club members had begun drifting over in their direction. As there was a lull in the music, due to the band taking a break, the area became quite busy with chatter and laughter, and Harry reveled in the feeling of interacting with close friends. The irrepressible twins immediately christened Harry's table the "champions table", as the only two champions from the previous year to be in attendance were both seated there. As always when the twins' antics were over the top, Harry merely rolled his eyes at them and returned to the conversation with his betrothed.

However, unlike earlier in the ball, when his gaze had been solely reserved for his affianced and closest friend, Harry kept one eye on another girl sitting at a nearby table. He was not in any way being unfaithful to his betrothed, but he had thought about his behavior the previous year, and realized that there was one to whom he owed an overdue apology. He was determined to make it that evening, in as public a setting as possible.

As the band returned to their instruments and the first strains of music once again settled over the Great Hall, Harry stood and excusing himself from his companions, made his way to the table to put his plan in motion. As he walked away, he noted Fleur's smile—he had made the French witch aware of his plans, and she had approved wholeheartedly.

He made his way around his friends—noting the fact that some were watching him curiously—and stopped in front of a pretty dark witch, who was dressed in a lavender gown. "Hello, Parvati, may I have this dance?"

The Indian witch looked up at him, startled, for several moments before she smiled and accepted. Harry led her to the floor, and they took their positions. The dance started and Harry began leading her about the floor, and though he was not a good dancer by any stretch of the imagination, he thought he managed to acquit himself admirably, and certainly better than he had the previous year.

"Parvati, I wanted to apologize for my behavior last year," Harry said once they began to dance. "I should have paid more attention to you and made sure we both had a good time. I failed you, and I wanted you to know that I am truly sorry for it."

She had clearly been expecting something of this nature, as Parvati immediately smiled and inclined her head. "It's okay, Harry. I know you had a lot going on with the tournament and all."

"That doesn't excuse how I acted," insisted Harry. "It was a night to have a good time and to make sure you had a good time, and I sat and brooded. I wanted to let you know that you're a beautiful girl, and that I shouldn't have treated you that way."

"It doesn't excuse it," she replied with a laugh. "But it does make it understandable. Thank you, Harry. I accept your apology. I should have known better than to expect more from it than you intended."

Confused, Harry looked at her in askance, wondering to what she referred.

Laughing, Parvati continued, "You really don't know what effect you have on girls, do you, Harry? I allowed myself to imagine I was a princess that night, and that you were the handsome prince who would sweep me off my feet."

Harry could only gape at her, wondering if she was having him on. Parvati only laughed harder at his incomprehension. After a few moments of merriment at his expense, she took pity on him.

"You excite the imaginations of so many, Harry, and you do it so effortlessly. It's not only your fame—though that's a part of it—but it's also your personality, how you try to make everyone feel like they are important. It's how modest and unassuming you are. Most girls in the school would give their right arms to be with you."

"I'm no prince, Parvati," Harry managed to stammer after a few moments, uncomfortable with the praise.

"No, you aren't," Parvati agreed. "You are a wonderful young man, who has his faults, as I unfortunately found out last year." Harry once again became shamefaced again at this observation, but Parvati was having none of it. "You have your faults like we all do, but still you're a wonderful person. If you ever have need of a second wife, please let me know—I'd be honored to accept the position."

Eyes widening with disbelief, Harry stammered, "S… Second wife?"

"Oh, Harry," Parvati said with a laugh, "don't worry—I was just joking. And besides, I think we all know who is most likely to get _that_ particular title." This last was said with a smile and a glance in the direction of the tables, and Harry, though he had a suspicion that perhaps Parvati was aware of something he was not, would not have pursued that particular conversation for all the galleons in Gringotts.

By the time that Harry had recovered his composure, the dance had ended. Gratefully, he took Parvati's hand and escorted her from the floor, depositing her at her table with her friends. Padma, who had watched them with interest, smiled and nodded at Harry, and he smiled in return, before excusing himself.

He sank down in his seat beside Fleur gratefully, wondering if he would ever understand women. Fleur smiled and kissed him on the cheek, telling him that it was right for him to make the apology in the manner that he had, and that she was proud of him for doing it. Knowing that his closest male friend had made a similar impression the previous year, Harry tried to catch Ron's eye, and gestured with his head toward where the twins were sitting. Ron, however, had already risen from his seat. A few moments later, he led the other Indian witch to the dance floor, presumably to make his own apology.

The prevailing mood amongst Harry's extended group of male friends was that Fleur was absolutely stunning that evening, a sentiment with which Harry had no argument. And it was a good thing that the other girls, who were all very pretty themselves, did not appear to hold any grudge that Fleur outshone them all. However, though Fleur had had compliments aplenty, no one put it in quite the manner which Seamus did. As a self-appointed connoisseur of feminine attraction, Seamus spoke up a few moments after the Ron had left for his dance.

"Harry, you are one lucky bugger," he said in a rather inelegant and blunt manner.

Though Harry would never count Seamus as a close friend, they had mended their differences to a certain extent, enough that Seamus did not question Harry's assertion that Voldemort had indeed returned. Thus, Harry was more than willing to banter with the other boy.

"I can't really argue with that statement."

"Nor should you," Seamus responded with a snort. "I mean, you have the audacity to become betrothed over the summer, which keeps you out of trouble with the Ministry. And instead of being tied to some warty old witch—which would have been poetic justice, by the way—instead you end up with the most beautiful witch any of us has ever laid eyes on."

Again Fleur blushed, though she directed a quelling look at Seamus. Harry was enjoying himself far too much to protest. "I think anyone would count themselves lucky to be betrothed with Fleur. Who wouldn't be attracted to her?"

A chuckle from Harry's side focused his attention on Dean. "I'm pretty sure I know he wouldn't be," he said, cocking his head towards a table across the hall."

Everyone listening to the conversation followed his direction and looked over, where it was obvious to whom Dean was referring. Malfoy sat at the table surrounded by Pansy, his goons and a few others of Slytherin house, and the glare he was directing at Harry appeared to be the garden variety glare which he usually used absently whenever Harry was in the area. It was a glare which seemed to accuse Harry of being alive, rather than containing the burning hatred which would have incinerated him on the spot had Malfoy had the power to do so.

"Malfoy?" Seamus demanded with scorn. "Who cares what he thinks? Besides, it's not surprising he wouldn't be attracted to such a fine specimen of female beauty—he's always been a bit of a poof anyway, don't you think?"

The entire table burst out into laughter, and Seamus, grinning, affected an expression of innocence. "What? You know he's always hanging around with those two gorillas. I'm betting that his thing with Parkinson is just a screen—he doesn't really pay her a lot of attention, does he?"

The laughter grew exponentially, and as the entire area's attention was on Malfoy, it was easy for the ponce to deduce that their laughter was at his expense. If his deepening scowl was any indication, it seemed like their merriment was not endearing those involved to him. The outburst also caught the attention of the rest of the occupants of the hall, though most of them merely shook their heads and went back to whatever they were doing before the interruption. Dumbledore did allow himself a smile of indulgent amusement before he returned his attention to his discussion with the other professors.

Of course Fleur, not being a native speaker and still having some difficulty with colloquial English, was lost by Seamus's statement. "A poof?"

This, of course, sent Harry into further spasms of laughter, and it was several moments before he—or anyone else—was able to respond. Even Hermione, straitlaced as she was, had laughed, though she had tried to affect a stern and disapproving demeanor. Predictably, it was the aforementioned Hermione who recovered enough to attempt an explanation.

"A poof is… well…" she stammered and stuttered, clearly uncomfortable with trying to explain such a matter to Fleur.

"It's a guy who likes other guys," Luna butted in. She had been nearby listening to the conversation the entire time, sitting with Neville, and though she appeared to be as airy and spacey as she usually was, her eyes gleaming rather suspiciously.

The information caused Fleur's eyes to widen. "You are calling him a… un… pédé? Un homosexuel?"

"That's _exactly_ what we're saying," Seamus responded with a smirk, to everyone's continued amusement.

Fleur watched Malfoy critically for several moments before she turned back to Harry with a slightly mischievous smile on her face. "You know, he might have a point."

Harry laughed with the others and then stopped to think in a most exaggerated manner. "Hmm… I wonder if I could put that into my repertoire of insults I keep especially for the little prick."

When he noticed Hermione's disapproving glare amidst the laughter, Harry held his hands up in defeat. "Don't worry, Hermione—I have no plans to use this insult against him. I somehow don't think he'd respond very well. He seems to have a rather high opinion of his… virility."

A swell of laughter once again echoed through the group. It was at that moment when the band began to play again, and Harry rose and extended his hand to Fleur in invitation, which she accepted with a smile.

It was a slow song and though there were no specific steps to be adhered to, Harry was quite content to hold her close and sway to the music. They continued thus for some time before Fleur let out a sigh and leaned closer, resting her head upon Harry's shoulder. "I'm glad we decided to move our relationship forward, Harry," she said. "There are certainly some benefits to be had."

Chuckling, Harry pulled her closer and continued to dance with her, reflecting upon how nice and how _right_ this felt. Benefits indeed.

* * *

For Fleur, the night was magical, and everything she had hoped the last Yule Ball could have been. But whereas that last ball had begun with promise and ended with disappointment and an unwanted level of attention, this one was made enjoyable by one whom she truly esteemed, and had not been ruined by Roger, whom she had seen around the hall, but who had been intelligent enough to keep his distance.

She was thrilled at the reaction Harry had had to her appearance earlier, and while she knew that true relationships were not built upon nothing more than physical attraction, she knew that it was an important component. If his looks and glances since then were any indication, she knew that she would not have to worry about his level of attraction to her, regardless of whether or not their feelings ever progressed as far as Fleur hoped.

And they were progressing. As a Veela and being in tune with the emotion of love, she knew that the first stirrings were beginning for both of them. It was thrilling—she could never have imagined that they were moving to such a level so effortlessly when she had first learned of the betrothal.

"A knut for your thoughts?"

Harry's voice broke through Fleur's reverie, and she smiled at him as they continued to dance across the floor. "Nothing in particular. I was just thinking about how far we've come and how easy it's been."

"Well, it helps when a guy gets such an amazing betrothed," Harry said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Flatterer!" Fleur accused with a laugh.

"It's true," was his quiet reply. "I didn't know last year how amazing you are because I never really took the time to get to know you. But you are amazing, Fleur. I'm happy that everything has worked out the way it has."

Unable to respond with words, a very pleased and emotional Fleur stretched up and kissed his lips softly, and though the action was chaste, it conveyed a depth of emotion—returned by Harry—that left Fleur almost breathless.

The romantic interlude continued for some moments before they both broke it off, neither completely comfortable with such overt displays of affection in the middle of a dance floor. As they continued to move together in complete harmony, Fleur was led to reflect again upon how the situation had worked out, and to be grateful that Harry was who he was. If he had been a different person, it could have turned out much, much worse. But with Harry, she could almost taste the happiness in her future.

* * *

The evening had grown late and many of the students had already sought their beds, though the more adventurous or those who were attending with their special someone were still in attendance. The last dance was important for such couples, after all.

Of those few not dancing, Hermione Granger sat at the table she and her friends had occupied all evening. On the whole, it had been a satisfying evening, she thought, even though she had not had a specific date like she had had last year. In fact it was even more pleasant—Victor had behaved like a gentleman, but he had really been quite dull. He _had been_ very nice and attentive, but he had come off as slightly less than gifted intellectually, and had not been able to carry on a conversation about anything other than Quidditch. She could never have dated him, though his request for her to go to Bulgaria to visit him, coupled with his request to write, had made it appear like he, at least, had hoped for such a relationship to develop.

Tonight she had danced with many of her friends, but for the most part she stayed with Harry and Fleur. Though Fleur had obviously been Harry's first priority, Hermione felt that Harry had likely danced almost an equivalent number with her as with Fleur. Of course, she could not help but feel that some of the Purebloods in the room watched her, knowing of the possibility of Harry having more than one wife, and wondering if she would accept such a proposal. When she had first realized it, she had been irked, but she had quickly come to the conclusion that it did not matter, and had taken to ignoring the looks, both real and imagined.

Now as she sat, drained by the evening's activities, watching the proceedings, she vacillated between being disinterested, while on the other hand being slightly envious of her fair-haired friend. She was well aware of the fact that she should not feel this way—it had always been a foregone conclusion that Harry would dance the last with Fleur. Hermione liked Fleur and considered her to be a close friend; they were very good for each other, she felt, and would make each other happy.

That did not stop her from wishing that she was in Fleur's place, dancing with the boy that she not-so-secretly fancied. The feeling was especially unnecessary given what Fleur had offered her—the chance to be with Harry as well.

To say that Hermione was still conflicted and uncertain was certainly an understatement. Much as she wanted to accept Fleur's proposal with alacrity, she was held back by her insecurities. She was well aware of the fact that Fleur thought she was still hesitating because of the Muggle world's view of plural marriage, but while that did give her pause, it was certainly not the main source of her indecision.

Hermione was afraid, plain and simple. It had seemed like such good advice at the beginning—Fleur had been certain that Hermione would be on equal footing, as her relationship with Harry was of long standing, and that would balance whatever inequality she imagined there existed in their looks. There was no denying it—while Hermione knew that she was a pleasant, and perhaps even attractive girl, she could in no way compare with the beauty that Fleur possessed.

And therein was the crux of the problem. Hermione felt even now that she would be forever overshadowed by Fleur, especially now that Harry and Fleur's relationship appeared to be progressing at a steady pace. She knew it was stupid to feel this way; she knew that Harry had a big heart and that he was not ruled by the more superficial things in life. If she were ever to be married to Harry, she knew that he would cherish her as much as he did Fleur. But the knowledge still did not overcome her fears, regardless of how much she told herself that her fears were silly.

Sighing, Hermione sat back in her chair and forced her gaze away from the dancing couple. She was still young—only sixteen!—and she had plenty of time to figure this dilemma out. It was not a decision she had to make any time soon.

"Boyfriend trouble, Granger?"

Startled, Hermione whipped her head back around to see that Malfoy had approached her and was staring at her with a sardonic eye.

"Bugger off, Malfoy."

The blond ponce merely smirked. "Oh it's quite obvious; you moon around Potter like he's the second coming of Merlin. It's quite pathetic, actually."

Hermione turned away and ignored him, but Malfoy appeared not to notice. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that his attention was focused on Harry.

"It's too bad about Potter, really," he continued in a slightly introspective tone. It was obvious to Hermione that he was thinking out loud, and was not truly paying attention to her. "I mean, even though he's just a Halfblood, he could be acceptable due to his family's long heritage, even if they _have_ polluted their bloodline frequently with the blood of their inferiors.

"But he's blind to the reality of his situation. The Potters have a long history, and with his fame and fortune he could literally have almost anything—or anyone—he wanted. Instead he saddles himself with creatures and Mudbloods. I could have protected him from that, but he chose to become my enemy instead."

"Maybe he finds you and those who agree with you nauseating," was Hermione's terse response. "I know I do."

"_You would_," was Malfoy's sarcastic response. "Those who are inferior must cling to _something_ to justify their existence. Really, I can see no difference between a Mudblood like yourself, and the Veela. One flavor of filth is really not much different from another flavor, after all."

"You're so charming, Malfoy," Hermione drawled. "I can't imagine how any girl wouldn't swoon at the sound of your honeyed tones making love to them."

An elegant eyebrow rose at her declaration. "Well, _I am_ a Pureblood, after all. Any girl would be lucky to have me."

"Modesty is such an attractive trait." Hermione's tone was practically scathing, but it did not appear to faze Malfoy in the slightest.

"Those who have something to be modest about can be modest. I have no such need."

"You're delusional."

Malfoy smirked and paused to rake his eyes over her form, a leer coming over his face. "You know, Granger, if you're having trouble getting a boyfriend, maybe you should try me out. I bet I could show you a good time—better than that wimp Potter, anyway."

"You have such a way with words," Hermione simpered outrageously. "Any girl would swoon if you spoke to them that way. But what about Parkinson? Isn't she your betrothed?"

"Pansy will do what she's told. Besides, I can have more than one wife, or didn't you know that?" He regarded her critically. "Though the title 'wife' is a little too good for a Mudblood like you. How about 'plaything' instead?"

"You've a much higher opinion of yourself than you ought, given the fact that you've never managed to best me or any of my friends." It appeared that reminding him of his frequent failures was making him cross, as his expression darkened in response to her retorts. "And just for the record—I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot wand, Malfoy, so I suggest you confine your wooing to someone stupid enough to saddle herself with you."

"Malfoy!" a voice surprised both of them, and Hermione looked up to see Harry standing there, staring at Malfoy with an annoyed expression on his face. Of course, that was normal when it came to the Slytherin. "Don't you have some rock you need to go crawl back under?"

"Potter," Malfoy snarled in return. "I'm just having a private conversation with Granger here. Why don't you butt out?"

"I'm sure she has better things to do than banter with you," Harry rejoined. "You can run along now, and don't forget to _not_ come back."

Hermione thought that Harry was showing remarkable restraint, given the history between himself and Malfoy. But the Slytherin was not about to depart without one final jab at his nemesis.

"One of these days, Potter, you will be put in your place. And I aim to be there to witness it." With that he turned and stalked off.

Harry was all solicitous with Hermione, questioning her closely about what Malfoy had said to her and how he behaved, and his concern touched her heart. She assured them she was fine and that she had been able to handle Malfoy without any help, and even then her friends were not truly mollified. Still, Malfoy was Malfoy and there was not a whole lot they could do but ignore him. And put him in his place when he crossed the line, of course.

"I can't imagine that he'd think you would give him the time of day," Fleur commented once Hermione had finished telling her story.

"I really don't think he was serious," Hermione replied. "It was more just an attempt to insult me. The crap that spews from his mouth never does change."

"He does ooze slime in a rather… Malfoy-esque fashion," Harry opined, prompting a look of amusement from Hermione.

"Oh, and this is the result of your determination to insult him less?" Hermione teased.

Harry merely smiled and assumed a rather arrogant pose. "That's only in public. When I'm by myself or with my friends, I feel no need to censor myself. I'm only telling the truth—he _is_ slimy, you know!"

Laughing, the three friends left the Great Hall and followed the other students, who were even now exiting now that the ball had come to an end. They mingled for some time, ultimately making their way back to Gryffindor tower. There, Harry gallantly kissed each of their hands, thanking them for a wonderful evening, and wishing them a good night. Hermione entered her dorm smiling and thinking that if she ever did decide to accept Fleur's offer, that she would certainly not be disappointed with Harry. He was everything she could ever want in a man. Now if she could only convince herself that it would work out between the three of them.

* * *

_Update 06/30/2013  
_


	29. Chapter 28 – Two Kinds of Trouble

**Chapter 27 – Two Kinds of Trouble**

The problem with this particular Yule Ball was the fact that the Hogwarts Express was due to depart the following morning. It was true that most of the students—even the boys, who would normally be almost allergic to such an activity as dancing—enjoyed themselves very much. However, as most of the students had stayed at the ball until at least midnight, and almost no one had been in bed before two, the idea of rising at seven to eat breakfast and prepare for their departure was not exactly welcome. Thus, it was a rather tired and grumpy school of students who gathered in the Great Hall the following morning, minus those who were to stay at the school over the holidays, of course—those few souls were rather smug in their ability to sleep in.

Not much was said over breakfast by any of Fleur's friends, most concentrating on their breakfast and the fight to stay awake. Fleur, having completed most of her schooling at Beauxbatons, and having experience with their more sensible custom of Flooing to and from the school, was amused by the lethargy of her less than chipper friends, thinking that the ride on the Hogwarts Express was likely to be as subdued as any in recent memory.

Soon breakfast was eaten, bags were packed, and the entire school made their way to the train station and boarded the train, settling in for the long trip home. Fleur's group of friends situated themselves in two adjacent compartments and hunkered down for the long trip and, as Fleur had surmised, most of them immediately rolled up their jackets or other articles of clothing, rested their heads upon them, and promptly fell asleep. But though she was fatigued herself, Fleur found that she was unable to join them, as she was simply too keyed-up with anticipation for the coming days.

Since their relationship had begun to deepen, Fleur's level of excitement for her future and the future of her relationship with Harry had risen accordingly. She could now see a very happy future with her betrothed, something in which she had not always held a high level of confidence. She had always known that she would be content—Harry's personality was such that even if he was never able to give her anything more than his hand in marriage, she would at least never suffer as his wife. But being Veela, love was an intrinsic part of her makeup, and she knew that if she and Harry had never developed a true bond of love that something would always have been missing from her life. Harry had still not actually said the words to her—it would have been too early for such a step in any case—but Fleur knew that he was feeling the first stirrings of love in his heart, and it thrilled Fleur. Her hope was flourishing and she did not now doubt that it would come to fruition. It was more than she had dared to hope.

"Weighty thoughts."

The sudden words startled Fleur from her reverie and she turned her head and noticed Hermione watching her with a slight smile on her face. A quick glance around the compartment revealed that everyone else was asleep.

"Not precisely weighty," she responded in a low voice, "but rather happy ones instead, I must say."

Hermione cocked her head to the side, saying, "Can you share?"

Speaking over Harry—who was resting between them—was not ideal, but Fleur gamely leaned forward and continued speaking, again quietly so as to avoid waking anyone. "Just that Harry and I seem to be progressing much more quickly than I had any right to expect."

"And that's where we differ," Hermione said with a wry smile. "Personally, I think you had _every_ right to expect that your relationship would progress quickly. It may not have been evident back in the summer, but you are actually quite well suited, and though Harry is not shallow, who wouldn't be drawn to you? You are very beautiful, Fleur."

As usual, Fleur was somewhat embarrassed at the reference of her physical attributes. There had been times in the past where she had wished she was not considered to be 'beautiful' due to the problems it had sometimes brought her way.

"I know you don't want Harry to be drawn to you simply for your looks," Hermione continued, "but you are well aware of the fact that it's not just that. He'd have to be dense not to realize your excellent qualities."

"I've certainly noticed his," Fleur said with a fond glance at her betrothed. In truth she'd known of them almost from the start. At least she had after their first meeting and her unfortunate "little boy" comment, when she had started knowing him a little better. Perhaps it was best that she had not grown up with the constant Boy-Who-Lived focus which existed in British society—it allowed her to see Harry for what he was, rather than the preconceived notions of him that his countrymen appeared to have.

"But it's all so new to me," said Fleur with a sigh. "I expected to have a great deal of difficulty in finding a mate who would look past my looks or my heritage, and having one essentially fall into my lap has at times been disconcerting."

Hermione's visage became amused. "What, the ever-composed and confident Fleur has been disconcerted? You've destroyed my faith in the order of the world!"

Leaning over, Fleur swatted Hermione's knee playfully, earning nothing more than a laugh from her friend. "I'll have you know that I'm certainly not _always_ confident!" Fleur replied with a mock glare. Hermione said nothing, but her grin was unmoved.

"What about you?" Fleur asked. She was a little hesitant about bringing up the subject as she was certain Hermione was not ready to make a choice, but her curiosity and some of the signs she was seeing suggested that her friend's feelings for Harry were deepening rapidly. "Have you given any further thought about what we discussed?"

Sighing, Hermione leaned back against the seat, making it difficult for Fleur to see her around Harry. Hermione did not reply immediately and Fleur, sensing that she was working through her own feelings, left her to her thoughts, waiting patiently for her to respond.

Finally, Hermione sighed yet again, and glanced back at Fleur, her expression rueful and somewhat frustrated. "I have," she confirmed. "In fact, sometimes I wonder if I've thought of anything else."

"And?" Fleur prompted after Hermione had fallen silent for several moments.

"And nothing," was Hermione's simple reply. "I have strong feelings for Harry; you already know this and have known from the beginning. But I have no more answer for you today than I did back in the summer, or even October for that matter. I don't know if my feelings are strong enough to encourage me to live in that kind of relationship, and until I do, I'd prefer to keep it to myself."

"Does it matter?" Fleur asked. "If you love Harry as much as I expect you do, I would think that _that_ would overcome any other concerns."

"But there are still other problems," insisted Hermione. "I come from the Muggle world, and I'm not sure my parents would understand or accept it if I decided to pursue this. And that's not even considering the question of whether I can be with a man who is with another woman at the same time."

"I know it's hard," Fleur replied, trying to be sympathetic to her friend's struggles. It was hard for her too, she reflected; there were times that she wanted to rescind the offer and keep Harry all to herself. But she was doing this for Harry, she told herself, at times when such thoughts dominated.

"It is," Hermione agreed. Her gaze then shifted from introspective to piercing, and she affixed upon Fleur. "What about you? Are you certain this is a wise course for you? Wouldn't you feel jealous if Harry also loved another woman? And if I actually agree with this and am able to convince Harry, wouldn't you be jealous when he's… _with_ me?"

"I have considered all this," said Fleur with a sigh. And she had—she herself had questioned the wisdom of pursuing this path constantly. In fact, the deeper her relationship with Harry became, the stirrings of doubt had begun to assail her more than she would have liked. Could she truly abide seeing Harry with another woman with whom she suspected he held a much deeper relationship than the one he had with herself? But she was firm, telling herself that Harry deserved this, for what he would otherwise be required to give up with Hermione. She would never wish to come between him and anyone else, regardless of what he was gaining by the enactment of this betrothal.

"The quick answer is that I don't know for certain. But I do know that I would never stand in the way of Harry's happiness."

"Fleur maybe you should consider the possibility that you can give Harry all the happiness he needs without sacrificing so much." Hermione's words were gentle and understanding, but laced with a certain firmness that Fleur had often heard from the girl when she was trying to make a point.

"I am actually becoming more and more confident that I _can_ make Harry happy," Fleur responded with a smile. "But I also know he is in love with you. This is an exception which I think is easy for me to make. It would not be nearly as easy if it was, say, Lavender Brown."

Hermione laughed. "I definitely don't think _Lavender_ is his type."

"_That's_ a relief!"

The two friends shared a moment of humor, which effectively broke the somewhat serious mood which had descended over them. "I know you've thought this over from every angle, and I won't push," Fleur continued, smiling at the younger girl. "But I won't promise not to be curious."

"I'm certain you won't!"

The topic was dropped and after a few moments of desultory conversation on other topics Hermione's eyelids began to droop, and she settled in next to Harry, fast asleep within a few moments.

Though she would have liked to join her friends in slumber, Fleur still felt wide awake. She spent a few moments considering Hermione's words and the dilemma which faced her, but nothing new which would help her came to mind; she would simply have to allow Hermione to work through her feelings in her own way. As for her own feelings, well, that was something she would just have to work through as she went along. Hermione's insight had touched a number of feelings and thoughts she had had herself, especially since her first kiss with Harry, and they affected her level of security with this path she had chosen. Still, she had made the decision, and she would stick by it.

By the time she had settled this within her own mind, Hermione had toppled slightly from where she had been resting, until her head now lay on Harry's shoulder. Fleur allowed herself a soft smile at the sight—it was rather endearing to be honest, just exactly how comfortable they were with each other. She was certain of Hermione's feelings for Harry, and she hoped that Hermione would come to terms with them in time.

It was at that moment that the door to the compartment opened. Fleur looked up to see Ginny Weasley standing, obviously ill at ease, gazing into the compartment with a slightly bashful expression on her face. She relaxed slightly when she saw that most of the compartment's occupants were asleep and, after taking a deep breath, apparently to calm herself, she addressed Fleur.

"Umm… Fleur," she stuttered. "I was… wondering if I might have… a word with you."

"Sure, Ginny," Fleur replied before rising to follow the younger girl from the cabin.

In truth, Fleur had been waiting for this for some time. Though a multiple marriage was not exactly a common occurrence, the rules and customs were set out and established by tradition. It was the prospective bride's responsibility for approaching the first wife to gauge her receptiveness to her as an additional wife. While this did not need to be done from the first moment of acquaintance with the man, it was definitely required before anything formal—or even informal—was decided upon. It was a quirky custom perhaps, as it completely bypassed the husband, but as the wife held the authority as to whether or not a woman would be allowed to marry _her_ husband, Fleur supposed it made sense.

For Ginny in particular, it was quite obvious that the girl still harbored hopes to become one of Harry's wives. Thankfully, she had been much more discreet about her feelings, even going so far as to attempt to be a friend to Harry, rather than see him through the prism of the Boy-Who-Lived, or a prospective husband. But still, Fleur had seen enough of her behavior the previous evening to know that her dream was alive and well—her eyes had hardly left him the whole night, and the moment when he had asked her to dance, almost two-thirds of the way through the evening, her face had lit up with equal parts pleasure and shyness. It had been obvious to anyone who had happened to have been looking at the time, as Fleur had.

Fleur was aware of enough of her history to know that Ginny's mother had filled her head with dreams of the Boy-Who-Lived since she was old enough to understand. But though Fleur was not exactly privy to Harry's thoughts, she was almost certain that he did not have any feelings for Ginny beyond that of a younger sister. Ginny was almost certain to be disappointed.

* * *

The moment the door closed behind the two girls, Harry's eyes snapped open and he looked through the window after Fleur's retreating form with some incredulity. Had Hermione and Fleur just been speaking of what he _thought_ they had been speaking of?

Unlikely as it seemed, it all made sense. The way the two of them had hit it off from the time Harry had become betrothed to Fleur, the manner in which they sometimes appeared to be speaking, yet avoiding any chance of his overhearing, the comment that Parvati had made the previous night, and now the conversation between them—which had been extremely light on specifics, beyond the two girls' feelings, he admitted—all added up to one thing that Harry could never in his wildest dreams have imagined. Fleur was encouraging Hermione to consider becoming a second wife.

Was such a thing even _legal?_ He supposed it must be, if Fleur had suggested it, and Hermione was actually considering it. What he was not aware of was exactly how he felt about the idea. Or perhaps he did. Turning his head slightly, Harry gazed at the form of his best friend as she slept, her head comfortably resting on his shoulder. He was well aware now of the feelings he had for Hermione, feelings which he had not even known existed before the previous summer—or perhaps more accurately he had simply not understood them—but had been trying, rather unsuccessfully, to suppress since he had become aware of them. If Hermione was amenable to the idea and it was actually legally possible, how could Harry not jump at the chance?

Then why did he feel so guilty, like he was betraying Fleur? Was it natural to feel so deeply for two women? Besides, was it not greedy in the extreme to even be considering marrying the two most wonderful girls he had ever known? And _was it_ even _possible?_

Of course no answers came to Harry, and for a moment he actually considered approaching the two girls and asking them what they were about. And then reality set in and Harry thought of the awkwardness of asking such a thing. No, he would not approach the two girls. He would figure out the answer for himself. Surely there had to be some information on the subject in the library at Hogwarts, perhaps in a book on Wizarding customs, or something about marriage. That was what he would do—he would search for himself. As for Hermione and Fleur, he would allow them to continue on as they were. Hermione had some valid concerns, and she would need to resolve this dilemma on her own. But Harry would discover what the possibilities were and be ready with his answer, if she ever came to the resolution that she wanted to be with him. He fidgeted a little in his seat to find a comfortable position and allowed he head to tilt to the side until it was resting upon the crown of Hermione's head. He knew his feelings for Hermione and knew what he _wanted_ his answer to be. But he would never hurt Fleur. If they were both able to convince him that it was what they wanted, the decision on his part would likely be an easy one.

* * *

Fleur and Ginny adjourned to the entrance to the next car back, where they could be assured of some privacy, and Ginny turned, her nervousness obvious. Fleur was filled with compassion for the young girl—whether she ended up with Harry or not, she was a good girl and Fleur had no wish to see her hurt.

"Fleur," Ginny began hesitantly, "I wanted to ask you… Well, what I mean to say was…" Ginny trailed off for a moment before she visibly squared her shoulders and said in a rush, "I was wondering if you'd consider me for a possible second wife for Harry."

Amused, Fleur smiled at Ginny, hoping to put her at ease. "I'm not exactly married to Harry yet, you know," replied, trying to be as gentle as she possibly could. "Isn't it customary to approach the 'wife' _after_ she has already married the man?"

"Perhaps," Ginny said with a tremulous smile. "But I'd like to get it out there from the start."

"Ginny, why do you want to formalize this now?" Fleur asked. "You're only fourteen—surely you have some time before you need to worry about betrothals."

"I know that," was the girl's stubborn reply. "But I've spent my whole life dreaming of being Harry's wife, and being his friend the past few months has shown me what a great guy he is."

That essentially sealed the deal—it was obvious where Ginny had gotten her obsession—her mother had to have been encouraging this. Though Fleur could not say to precisely what extent Mrs. Weasley had encouraged Ginny, or even whether or not she had been right to do it, she did, at that moment wish that Ginny was not quite so single-minded on the subject. However, as Fleur had already told herself, Ginny was a nice girl. Perhaps she just needed the facts to be laid out to her now so that it was very clear. Then she could move on with her life and allow things to develop as they would without trying to force the issue.

"Listen, Ginny," Fleur told her, "I will _never_ stand in the way of Harry's happiness in any way. If he at all returned your feelings, I would have no problem at all approving you as another wife. However…" Fleur could see Ginny's expression which had brightened as Fleur had spoken, fall once again, and she could sympathize with the girl. But, this needed to be said, and she would not sugar-coat the stark reality of the situation.

"However, I suspect that Harry does not see you that way," she continued. "If you watch him closely, I think he sees you as a sister and friend. Before the beginning of the school year, I believe you were nothing more than his best friend's sister, but you've certainly made a lot of progress in that regard."

Ginny thought about it for several minutes, her slightly tremulous countenance betraying her dismay. "But if I've made progress, couldn't it become something more in time?"

"Absolutely it could," Fleur agreed. "Ginny, I don't want to discourage you, but I also don't want you to get your hopes up too much. For the time being, I certainly _will not_ formalize anything more, unless it is _Harry's_ desire. We are just getting used to each other—we don't need another relationship right now to complicate things."

"You'll approve of it in the future?"

The request was given so earnestly, Fleur had to smile. The girl was persistent, if nothing else. "Again, it will depend on Harry. If he wants it, and if he is in love with you, then I won't stand in his way. But I will be completely honest—I suspect that there is someone else who is much more likely to become a second wife, if she decides she wants to take that step."

Seeming to intuitively understand exactly of whom Fleur was referring, Ginny nodded her head in a thoughtful manner; at least Fleur had given her pause, and something to think about.

"I'll give you some advice, Ginny," said Fleur. "Try to live your life _without_ this all-consuming desire to be noticed by Harry. You've made a lot of progress in becoming Harry's friend, but I truly believe that you need to consider other options. Or maybe you don't even need to consider this subject at all right now—you are only fourteen, after all. You don't need to find your life mate now."

"You don't think I'm compatible with Harry?" Ginny asked.

"I don't necessarily have an opinion about that at all. All I'm saying is that you should allow yourself to consider other possibilities. You don't want to be stuck in a marriage down the road and find out that you should really have gotten to know your spouse better, or realized that you really didn't want to be only _one of his wives_. Take some time when you're young to allow yourself to see beyond what you've always imagined. The possibility that you have never even considered may be better than the future you've always thought you might have."

Pleased at the thoughtful expression that now adorned Ginny's face, Fleur squeezed the girl's shoulder with some affection, and turned to go back to the compartment. As she was leaving, Ginny called her again, and she turned to once again regard the young girl.

"Thanks for the advice," she said with a bashful smile. "I think you're right, but don't be surprised if we're having this conversation some time when I'm older."

"You're welcome," said Fleur. "And I think I can safely say that when it comes to Harry, _nothing_ surprises me."

They shared a laugh before Fleur left Ginny to her thoughts and once again returned to the compartment where her friends still slept. This time, however, she was feeling the fatigue of the late night and, hoping that her thoughts had been corralled sufficiently, she sat on the bench and leaned up against Harry. She was fast asleep within minutes.

* * *

The express stopped at the station and within moments its occupants had disembarked for the holidays. Leave-takings were kept short, as the separation between most friends was to be no more than two weeks. And though Ginny bid a fond farewell to all of her friends, a part of her could not but be disappointed and a little jealous of Hermione's good fortune. Her separation from Harry would be of only a few days' duration, after all. Ginny, together with her brothers, approached her parents who were waiting for their arrival and, after their greetings were exchanged, they left the platform and exited the platform.

It was only a few moments later that they were home—Ginny's parents had simply side-along apparated them from a secluded alley with Ginny and Ron, with the twins following on their own. Grateful at last to be home, Ginny immediately made her way up the stairs to her room, intent upon thinking about her conversation with Fleur, not to mention all that had happened since she left for Hogwarts in August. At least this was one of her reasons for her quick retreat; the other was the fact that she had felt her mother's eyes upon her since she had greeted her parents at the station, and her mother's preoccupation while seeing them all settled once again into their home seemed like a good opportunity to escape having to speak about the situation with Harry for a while. Besides, she wanted to work her way through her feelings before her mother began demanding that she answer the inevitable questions. Entering her room, Ginny sighed and, dropping her bag by the side of the bed, sank down onto the bed and lay back against her pillow.

Her mind instantly focused itself upon the things of which she had spoken with Fleur. She was not unhappy with the other girl—nothing could be further from the truth. She was more… disappointed than anything else. Fleur had brought up some extremely good points, after all, things which Ginny had never considered before. _Had_ she been closed to all other possibilities, focused to the exclusion of all else of her desire to one day be with Harry? Until Harry's trial and subsequent betrothal to Fleur, Ginny would have said no. In fact, she had made a resolution with herself upon returning from school the previous June; frustrated by her inability to even hold a coherent conversation with Harry, she had determined that she would stop trying so much, and simply allow herself to have fun. At the time she had felt that if things had happened with Harry then, she would be happy to go along with the flow, but if they did not, then she would deal with it at that time.

But what had seemed like a good idea when Harry was still a shy, introverted teen, with no prospects for a girlfriend, let alone anything more, turned out to be so different when confronted with the reality of the betrothal. The reality that he was already taken had proved Ginny's resolution to be so much bravado. Even Hermione reinforcing what Ginny had already decided earlier in the summer had not fully deterred her. Ginny supposed that she had been quite good about not being too overt, but the prospect of a life without Harry had induced her to attempt to get closer to him; after all, if she could not have _all_ of Harry, then settling for _some_ of Harry seemed like a reasonable compromise.

But Fleur's advice that morning had struck a chord within Ginny. The older girl was completely correct—this… infatuation with Harry was such a part of her that she could not think of any time when her feelings had been any different. She had been focused on him, starting with the stories she had heard frequently as a girl, then by actually meeting him and realizing that he was not at all what the stories had said, not that she had ever truly believed the fanciful children's tales with which she had been raised. And somehow, the fact that Harry was just a young boy with insecurities and an aversion to any kind of recognition endeared him to her all the more. So in light of all of this, Ginny had to admit that Fleur had been entirely correct—she had never allowed herself to think of any other possibility for her future.

But why? Why should she be fixated entirely on Harry? Surely she was so young that she need not even consider such things for several years to come. And _could she_ even be happy with other wives involved in the equation? She had certainly never considered the idea of a multiple marriage, even while she had always known of the possibility—or even the likelihood—of Harry having more than one wife, given the state of his family. It seemed like a serious oversight on her part. But _could _she do it?

It was with these thoughts in mind that she passed her first two days at home. Fortunately for Ginny, she was able to put her mother off for far longer than she had any right to expect. After a quick breakfast the following day, she had spent the rest of the day with Luna, and when she had arrived back home, had spent some time in the company of her entire family. Her mother, though perhaps not always completely circumspect in the manner in which she dealt with her family, was not about to have this conversation in front of everyone.

It was Monday morning when Ginny found herself completely unable to avoid the inquisition any longer. Her father had left for work and her brothers had gone out to the Quidditch pitch to fly on their brooms, and Ginny, as she was still pondering the situation, was not quick enough to escape.

The conversation began with the typical banal platitudes about how the school year had gone and what she had learned in her studies, which Ginny, of course, found rather amusing, considering the fact that she and her brothers had already had this conversation with both of her parents. But as they talked, Ginny quickly arrived at the opinion that her mother, though affecting an interest in what they were discussing, was more than a little impatient to get to the subject which was the _real_ thrust of their tête-à-tête. Clearly she hoped that Ginny would bring up the subject but perversely, Ginny decided that she had no intention of speaking of Harry unless her mother forced her to do so. It was, therefore, that her mother finally became impatient and opened the discussion herself.

"And how is Harry, dear?" The words were spoken in a credible manner which her mother undoubtedly intended to be nonchalance mixed with polite curiosity, but Ginny, who knew her mother quite well, could see through her in an instant. Deciding further that her mother's behavior should provoke a similar response, Ginny responded in a manner for which her mother was _most certainly not_ hoping.

"Harry is well. I've seen a lot more of him this past term, what with the Defense Club and all. It's nice to see him finally happy, and I think that his relationship with Fleur has really taken off."

Though her mother appeared as though she had just swallowed a gallon of bubotuber pus, she forced a smile. "That's nice. He's such a nice boy—he deserves a nice girl to settle down with—when he's little older, of course."

"Then you'll be happy to know that Fleur is a _very nice_ girl. I see her as a big sister already."

Her mother regarded her for some moments after her glowing report of Fleur, before she sighed and leaned forward, clasping Ginny's hands between her own. "Ginny, I think I know my daughter, and though you put a brave face on the situation, I know how intense your feelings are. Aren't you upset or disappointed at Harry's betrothal?"

"Disappointed?" Ginny asked. "Of course I'm a little disappointed. Upset? No, not at all. I've had this infatuation for Harry a long time, but I always knew there was no guarantee that he would ever notice me. I'm sure I will get over the disappointment."

"It's not what I would have wanted for you…" her mother began in a very hesitant manner, "but have you ever thought of the fact that Harry may have more than one wife? Have you considered approaching Fleur?"

Of course she had, but Ginny would never admit to her mother—even under the influence of Veritaserum!—that she had done exactly what her mother was suggesting _that very morning!_

"I'm not sure if I could live that way, mother," Ginny prevaricated. "And I have no indication that Harry sees me as anything other than Ron's little sister." She had not, and neither had Fleur, and with the older witch's abilities, the knowledge of Fleur's opinion made her own doubts seem all that much more real. She was still not certain what she felt about that, but she was certain she would come to some sort of resolution in time.

"I just hate to see you upset," was her mother's worried comment.

"Don't worry, Mum," Ginny responded. "I think it's time to move on with my life. All I ever had was an infatuation, and I know that I need to learn to see beyond that. Who knows? Eventually something may happen between us, but I'm not going to pine away waiting for it. And besides—I'm only fourteen. It's not like I have to rush to get married."

"You're right, I suppose," her mother said with a sigh. "It's just… well, I've always indulged in the hope that Harry would take a fancy to you. Especially since he's such a nice boy."

"I know, mum. But if it is meant to be, it will happen. Otherwise…"

The thought did not need to be expanded upon, and Ginny was content to allow the conversation to come to an end, as her mother appeared to have nothing more to say. But Ginny was encouraged by her mother's reaction—she half expected, given Molly Weasley's well known temper and insistence on getting her own way, that she would dig in her heels and refuse to see sense. Now Ginny just had to work through it in her own mind and come to terms with it herself…

* * *

_A long, dark hall, stretching eerily off into the distance._

_ Shelves line the walls, shelves which hold row upon row of dusty orbs, gleaming dully in the gloom._

_ Orbs? Yes, dusty, slivery orbs, of unknown substance._

_ Each is placed within its own niche built into the shelves, carefully immobilized so that it cannot move or fall._

_What can they be?_

_ No matter._

_ Unimportant._

_ The shelves and their orbs continue on into the distance, never ending, never beginning. Nothing breaks the monotony._

_ Movement? A flash of something in the distance. Shapes, indistinct, shrouded by the murky light._

_ Approach._

_ How? Is there a way?_

_ No matter._

_ The figure comes closer and its indistinct form solidifies like a tower looming through a thick fog. It appears, materializing into the shape of a man._

_ The man walks slowly through the gloom. He peers this way and that, clearly looking for something. Or scouting. Much like she is doing._

_ She? Who is she? Does it even matter?_

_ Caution is required._

_ The man continues slowly down the aisle, scanning the gloom. Looking for something._

_ Follow._

_ Suddenly the man turns and gazes back toward…_

_ Harry starts. The figure is known to her. Red hair, slightly balding, jovial features, though etched with concern and caution._

_ The man is Mr. Weasley! What is he doing here? Where is here?_

_ Stillness. Motionlessness._

_ Mr. Weasley begins to walk again, still carefully studying the hall._

_ After a moment, she follows, slowly gliding toward him._

_ Gliding? Harry's gaze rotates back and forth, realizing that following is impossible. Harry has no arms and legs._

_ No arms and legs? What a ludicrous thought! But though Harry tries to look for them, see them, even if he cannot feel them, her eyes stubbornly remain fixed on the form of Mr. Weasley who is getting closer all the time._

_ She approaches and sees the form of her enemy towering above her._

_ Enemy? Mr. Weasley is not an enemy!_

_ Why is Harry so much shorter that the Weasley patriarch? Harry is not overly tall, as has been sometimes lamented. But surely Harry is not _that_ short! And Harry has grown in the past months!_

_ Faster. Speeding over the tiles of the floor. Mr. Weasley is now only inches in front of her face._

_ The first indication the man has that something is wrong is when Harry's sinuous body begins moving up his leg._

_ Sinuous body?_

_ Harry gasps with recognition; she is a snake!_

_ She wraps herself around the body of the human interloper, an evil gleam in her eyes. Just as her master would, she delights in the fear which suddenly blooms in the man's countenance._

_ Harry can only struggle against his bonds, witnessing the attack with rising horror._

_ Mouth open wide, she rears back and hisses before darting forward…_

* * *

Gasping, Harry jolted awake and sat up, his chest heaving, his heart beating wildly, seemingly trying to force its way from the confines of his body. The sheets had been twisted around him and he could feel the slightly oily sheen of sweat dripping from his forehead and staining his bedclothes.

Wearily, Harry wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, vainly attempting to suppress his trembling. Starting, he looked down at his hand, inspecting it as though he had never seen it before. Its form, the lines upon his palm, they were all familiar sights, but almost seemed alien in the aftermath of the dream. There he had not had arms or legs, just scales, eyes, and long gleaming fangs…

Suddenly remembering, Harry's eyes opened wide and he remember the last instant of the dream, the feeling of gliding up Mr. Weasley's body, and the moment when the snake had reared back to strike.

Nagini! But why was he dreaming of Nagini? What could it possibly mean? And was it real?

Grimly, Harry grabbed his wand from a nearby table. Given his history with dreams of Voldemort, he could not take the change that it _was not_ real.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" he cried, and from his wand, the silvery, comforting form of his stag patronus leapt forth. But whereas it would normally have immediately begun searching for enemies, this time the stag merely stood silent, waiting for him to direct it. He smiled; it was exactly as Hermione said it would be, when she had researched the spell and told him of its other uses.

"Go to Dumbledore," he commanded the patronus. "Mr. Weasley has been attacked by Nagini in a room full of globes."

The stag bowed its head before stamping its front hooves and galloping from the room, speeding through the walls as though they were not even there. Confident that the message would be carried and accepted, Harry swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood from the bed, his legs still feeling unsteady from the dream.

He left his room and made his way down the corridor, knowing that Jean-Sebastian would want to be notified of what had happened. He wondered what time it was; though it was difficult to tell due to the shortness of the midwinter days, he thought it was likely no later than four in the morning, and likely much earlier.

Arriving at the door to the Delacours' room, he took a quick breath before knocking on the door, his manner much more urgent than he had intended. It was only a moment before he heard footsteps approaching and the door opened to reveal the Delacour patriarch. His hair was tousled from sleep and he had hastily thrown a dressing gown over his shoulders. His countenance became instantly concerned, obviously recognizing the distressed expression Harry knew he was wearing.

"Harry, what's wrong?" he asked as he stepped out into the hall and closed the door.

"Something has happened," Harry blurted out.

Though he opened his mouth, presumably to question further, Jean-Sebastian looked around and then motioned for Harry to follow him. Harry was grateful—the hallway was not the location to be having this conversation and he was feeling slightly lightheaded as his rush of adrenaline faded.

They proceeded down the hallway, stopping when Fleur's door opened and she stuck her head out, frowning when she saw them. "Papa? Harry? What is wrong?"

Jean-Sebastian glanced between Fleur and Harry, and motioned to his daughter to come with them. "I don't know, but it seems like Harry has something to tell us. You may as well hear it now as have Harry repeat it in the morning."

Fleur frowned at Harry, but he just gave her a tired smile in response, to let her know he was well. They continued along their way until they had arrived in Jean-Sebastian's study several moments later. Motioning them to a pair of chairs which were positioned in front of his desk, Jean-Sebastian sat in his own high backed chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. Harry felt almost like a piece of meat being inspected, though he knew that Jean-Sebastian had no intention of intimidating him or making him feel as such.

"Well, Harry, what has happened?" Jean-Sebastian asked a moment later. "Considering we're all sitting here quite calmly, I assume it's not _that_ urgent?"

Clad in a warm dressing gown, Apolline stepped into the room as Jean-Sebastian spoke, her expression concerned. She stopped to clench Harry's hand in her own, offering support for which Harry was immediately grateful. Apolline then sat in a chair which was situated to the side of the desk and, taking her husband's hand in her own, turned to await Harry's explanation.

Slowly and haltingly, Harry began to tell them of his dream and his experience, recounting in an almost emotionless voice the horror he had felt upon realizing that he was in the mind of a snake, and had bitten his closest friend's father.

Alarmed, Jean-Sebastian rose from his desk in agitation. "We need to summon help for Mr. Weasley!"

"I sent Dumbledore my patronus," Harry blurted.

Jean-Sebastian peered at him for several moments before nodding. "Good thinking, Harry. I didn't know that you knew of that application."

"Hermione researched it when I was learning it in third year," Harry replied almost shyly. "She told me what she'd found."

"Still, we should make sure that Arthur is receiving assistance," Jean-Sebastian declared. He moved to the Floo and began speaking into it.

It appeared that Fleur and Apolline were perceptive enough to realize that he had no desire to speak, as they were silent, Apolline in apparent deep thought, while Fleur held his hand and brushed her thumb lightly across the back in a soothing fashion. Harry attempted to think of nothing while he waited, content to drift on the currents of his thoughts without truly dipping into them. It was some time before Jean-Sebastian's movement caught his attention and he looked up from the half sleep he had fallen into.

"Well, it appears you were right, Harry," he said. "Though Dumbledore is trying to keep it as quiet as possible, Arthur _was attacked_ tonight, and it was your quick actions which saved him."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry slumped in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. Dreaming you were a snake _was_ disconcerting, but at least in this instance he had been able to help his friend's father.

"But where was he?" Harry asked after a slight hesitation. "What was he doing?"

"I don't have any answers for you, Harry," Jean-Sebastian responded. And though Harry suspected he knew more than he was letting on, he was content to let it go. He was too tired and drained to protest what would normally annoy him. "But rest assured, Harry, I will investigate and get to the bottom of this. I'm concerned about these dreams you have—first it was Voldemort, and now his familiar. We need to find out what's going on, and put a stop to it."

Harry could only agree. Having Voldemort in his head and his dreams was even more wearing on him than the psychopath would otherwise have been simply by being after his hide. At that moment, Harry wanted nothing more than to seek his bed and the oblivion sleep would hopefully bring.

Seeming to sense this, Jean-Sebastian regarded him with an expression of compassion on his face. "I think perhaps the answers will come to us in the morning. We should return to our beds."

Sighing gratefully, Harry left the room with Fleur accompanying him. They said good night with a quick kiss outside her door and Harry returned to his room. He sank down thankfully on the mattress and closed his eyes, allowing sleep to overtake him. But while he was soon asleep, his sleep was fitful that whole night, and he woke many times to the stillness of his room. Neither Voldemort nor Nagini invaded his dreams again, but the night terrors which did were indistinct shapes, calling out to him with distorted voices and mocking tones, baring gleaming fangs.

* * *

_Updated 06/30/2013  
_


	30. Chapter 29 – Forcing the Issue

**Chapter 29 – Forcing the Issue**

The morning after Harry's vision saw Jean-Sebastian Delacour gathered with his wife and Sirius Black in the Ambassador's Mansion, determined to get to the bottom of whatever was happening with Harry. He had always known that Voldemort had an unhealthy fascination with his ward, but things were becoming a little too personal and close to home for the French Ambassador.

The night before, after Harry had been sent back to his bed for the rest of the night, Jean-Sebastian had immediately Floo contacted Sirius at his residence in France, and his friend had Flooed to England through the private Floo connection Jean-Sebastian had installed at the mansion as a safety exit. Together with Apolline, they discussed the situation long into the night, finally deciding that they had to approach Dumbledore to obtain the answers—if anyone knew them, it was the Headmaster.

They were preparing to go to Hogwarts the next morning, and Jean-Sebastian's mind was working over the events and the answers he wanted from Dumbledore, but he was concerned about their ability to obtain the answers in the face of the man's obvious reticence. In particular, a snippet of the previous evening's conversation stood out in Jean-Sebastian's mind.

* * *

"You know Dumbledore will not give up his secrets lightly," Sirius said while leaning back and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Jean-Sebastian peered sharply at his friend. "He would try to keep as important a matter as this from us, Harry's guardians?"

"It's the way he is," Sirius reply with a shrug. "During the first war with Voldemort, he played his cards very close to his vest."

"You would fight for a man who did not trust you with knowledge you needed to fight effectively?"

Though Sirius did not dispute Jean-Sebastian's words, he did attempt to explain his reasons for following the Headmaster. "Dumbledore was the only one who was doing anything. It was a dark time. You could never know who was secretly allied with Voldemort, and the Ministry was fighting a losing battle. Dumbledore gave us information at certain times which helped us fight the Death Eaters, but the most important secrets he kept to himself."

Considering Sirius's comments, Jean-Sebastian was not impressed with this knowledge. A firm believer in the necessity of people knowing what they were fighting against and what they were fighting for, to Jean-Sebastian such secrecy was almost incomprehensible. Perhaps it _was_ better that he remove his family along with Harry back to France to protect them. He decided to wait until after the conversation to make any decisions, but given the events of the previous evening, he knew that a refusal by the Headmaster to be explicit could very well push him in that direction.

"You must not think that Dumbledore is evil, or that he deliberately conceals things that others need to know," Sirius spoke up again, interrupting Jean-Sebastian's thoughts. "There _are_ times when his reticence can be maddening. But there are also some things which I believe he keeps to himself because they are vital to our efforts and to prevent the enemy from gaining an upper hand. He just sometimes takes this to extremes."

"Well, he had better be prepared to share with us," was Jean-Sebastian's firm reply.

"If he doesn't, he'll have _me_ to contend with," Apolline stated, her voice low and menacing.

* * *

Now Jean-Sebastian understood that Dumbledore had fought against the darkness for a good part of his life, and that he had fought the good fight, and emerged victorious more often than not. However, he could not countenance such secrecy in the man, not if he was to be effective in protecting not only Harry, but his family, and those under his employ at the manor. In a sense, all those who had followed him here from France had put their lives on the line in supporting him in his role as ambassador. And as for Harry, Jean-Sebastian was genuinely impressed with the young man and wanted what was best for him. If there was anything in Dumbledore's secrets which affected him, he had a right to know, and Jean-Sebastian would be damned if he allowed Dumbledore to obfuscate and hold onto his secrets like a man adrift at sea holding onto a branch of a tree. To effectively oppose the darkness, it was necessary to share all pertinent information. And in the back of his mind, Jean-Sebastian was feeling a certain measure of guilt that he had kept the prophecy from Harry, especially so soon after promising that he would be open with the young man. That needed to be rectified.

A quick Floo call later and Jean-Sebastian and Sirius were stepping through the Floo to Dumbledore's office. Fortunately, Jean-Sebastian had convinced Apolline to remain at home with the children rather than accompany them—his wife, though intelligent and thoughtful, possessed a fiery temper, which in a large part was a trait of her Veela heritage, and Jean-Sebastian doubted her ability to remain calm in the face of what he suspected Dumbledore would have to tell them.

"Jean-Sebastian. Sirius," Dumbledore greeted them as they stepped through into the Headmaster's office. The elderly man appeared exhausted, as though he had been up most of the night. And Jean-Sebastian suspected he had, with the news which Harry had sent to him the previous night, and the efforts he knew the Headmaster had been making to keep the situation as quiet as possible. "I cannot say that I'm surprised to see you here this morning."

"Nor should you be," Jean-Sebastian responded. "Sirius and I are very concerned about the situation with Harry and we need to know what is happening. The place Harry described in his… vision, sounded like the Hall of Prophecy. Can we assume that his dream had to do with the prophecy you referred to last summer?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I suspect it did. Nagini seems to have been a scout and she came across Arthur by chance."

"But what was Arthur doing there in the first place?" Sirius asked.

"Members of the Order have been keeping an eye on the hall," Dumbledore responded. "Though I did not know that Arthur was going to check on it last night, from what I understand, he was working late, trying to complete some tasks before the holidays, and decided that it would be the perfect time to check quickly and make certain nothing was amiss. It was simple coincidence that Nagini happened to be there at the same time."

Sirius and Jean-Sebastian shared a look. "He's after the prophecy?"

"I can only assume. He must realize that he does not have the full text, and rather than risking another confrontation with Harry, he must be determined to know the full contents. Harry _has_ stood up to him several times and lived, after all. That must be difficult for one of Voldemort's ego to take."

"Is the prophecy in danger?" Jean-Sebastian demanded. "Should we take Harry in to retrieve it?"

"I would recommend against that at this time," was Dumbledore's firm response. "Nagini appears to have been an advance scout and the magics protecting the prophecy orbs are ancient and powerful. It will take some time for the dark lord to circumvent them.

"Besides, taking Harry to the Hall of Prophecy would almost certainly attract attention and there are certain… elements at the Ministry that remain ignorant of the prophecy. It is in our best interests to keep it that way."

It was obvious that Dumbledore was referring to Fudge, though the existence of the prophecy was best kept from everyone who was not currently in the know. And Jean-Sebastian could not fault Dumbledore's logic—the man had clearly thought this through and his reasoning was sound. This was not what Jean-Sebastian had come here to know, and as such, he was more than willing to drop the subject in favor of more important concerns.

"Very well," said Jean-Sebastian, after receiving a silent nod of agreement from Sirius. "That is not what we wished to discuss this morning anyway, though it is good that you are keeping us advised of what is happening with the prophecy. I am more concerned over the fact that Harry dreamed the attack, but also that this is not the first time that he has seen Voldemort in his dreams. Would you care to explain what you know of this most troubling phenomenon?"

"It is not unknown for powerful wizards to see a glimpse of future events. Harry may have a slight gift of prescience, which allowed him to witness what he did."

It was clear that Dumbledore was prevaricating and Jean-Sebastian was in no mood for his attempts to put them off. "You are correct, but that is not what has happened in this case," Jean-Sebastian replied, unable to keep the gruffness and impatience from his voice. "Harry _clearly_ stated that not only did he witness the attack, but that he saw it _from Nagini's point of view_. For a time, he even had difficulty separating himself from the snake. _That_ is not a prescient vision, Dumbledore, and the other times he has seen Voldemort do not fit into your explanation either."

The Headmaster sighed and he leaned back in his desk, wearily rubbing his eyes. After a moment, he replaced his half-moon glasses, and peered back at them, clearly not wishing to have this discussion.

"It appears that Harry has a… connection—for lack of a better term—to Voldemort."

"And what does the snake have to do with it?" Sirius asked.

"Nagini is Voldemort's familiar, and as such, if Harry has a connection with the dark lord, then logically, that connection extends to the familiar."

There was just enough hesitation in Dumbledore's answer that Jean-Sebastian knew, even if he had not already suspected, that the man was not telling them everything.

"Would you care to speculate on exactly what this connection is?"

"I'm not certain it would be prudent to do so at this time."

Jean-Sebastian glared at the Headmaster with some asperity, noting through the corner of his eye that Sirius was exhibiting the same frustration. "Headmaster," he began in a very deliberate but determined manner, "Sirius and I are responsible for Harry's welfare and we are not able to perform those duties to the best of our ability with incomplete information. If you know something, I insist you tell us."

The look with which Dumbledore pierced them was unexpected, laced with frustration, and perhaps a little resignation. However, it clearly spoke to the fact that they had convinced him to share his secrets with them. Or maybe it was more that they had given him no choice—Dumbledore was a wizard who had grown accustomed to keeping his secrets and making the decisions he deemed best. But Jean-Sebastian was not one to simply follow blindly; if Dumbledore wanted that sort of follower, he would have to look elsewhere for it.

Drawing his wand from somewhere within his robes, Dumbledore shot off several spells in succession. Jean-Sebastian, who was watching the old wizard closely, was impressed by the extensive array of privacy charms, imperturbable charms, and wards—it was apparent that this was of grave import to the Headmaster.

"I can tell you what I know," Dumbledore began in a hard tone, "but for the most part, I only have guesses at this point. If I am right, then this knowledge could mean the difference between victory and defeat. If Voldemort were to learn what I suspect, it would become much more difficult to counter what he has done. I must have absolute assurance that you will not spread this knowledge to _anyone!_"

Jean-Sebastian turned to Sirius and, seeing his acceptance, turned back to the Headmaster and gave him his assurance, though with a caveat.

"I will agree with you given one condition," Jean-Sebastian finally answered, noting the stern glare of disapproval the Headmaster directed at him. It was clear that he was not used to being contradicted.

"If I do not accept your terms, then I will not share anything with you," Dumbledore stated. "This matter is that important and it is already against my better judgment to be telling _you_ of it, let alone anyone else."

"Harry needs to know, Albus," Sirius spoke up from Jean-Sebastian where he had remained silent to that point. "And before you start in on how he's still just a child and cannot be burdened with the responsibility, keep in mind that he has not been a child for a very long time. He's much more mature than either James or I was at his age, and his experiences and other recent events have greatly accelerated his experience."

The belligerence drained away from Dumbledore, once again making him appear tired and old. "I was afraid you would assist on this."

Dumbledore sat in his chair, seemingly staring at nothing, but Jean-Sebastian could tell that he was furiously considering the situation and presumably the ramifications of revealing to the young man what Jean-Sebastian thought they should. Jean-Sebastian sympathized with him and given that this was obviously a weighty matter, could not fault him for his caution. But it was right—somehow, not even knowing what Dumbledore was to impart to them, Jean-Sebastian knew deep within himself that Harry needed to know this information.

Jean-Sebastian glanced over at Sirius, but while the other man did not speak, he shook his head. As Sirius knew Dumbledore better than he, Jean-Sebastian decided to let him work through his thoughts.

Finally, Dumbledore appeared to come to some resolution, and though he did not appear happy about it, he once again focused his attention on them, his manner serious and grave. "I will tell you what I know and agree that Harry should be told. However, once you are aware you may agree with me that it should be kept from him."

"We will see," was Jean-Sebastian's firm reply, "but I doubt it."

"You also know that anything you tell him, he will tell your daughter and Miss Granger?"

"I suspect," Jean-Sebastian admitted, "but I know that Fleur can keep it to herself, and Miss Granger has struck me as an intelligent young woman, who is completely devoted to Harry. I think we can trust them both to remain quiet, especially if Harry's welfare depends on it."

Sirius laughed his agreement. "You've got that right. Those two are almost joined at the hip. If there are any secrets about Harry which could hurt him, Hermione will keep them as close as you or I. And given the tone of Harry's letters, his closeness with Fleur appears to be approaching the same level. I doubt you have anything to worry about with either of them."

It was with a frown that Jean-Sebastian considered Sirius's words. It was uncomfortably close to some observations Jean-Sebastian had made of Harry and Hermione the previous summer, and at certain times he had seen them since they had left for Hogwarts. They _were close_; Jean-Sebastian had known this from the beginning, since Sirius had spoken to him about enacting the betrothal—he had wanted to know if he was interrupting any childhood romances for Harry should he go through with the betrothal. While Sirius had glibly laughed it off, telling him that Harry was not attached to anyone, Jean-Sebastian had thought his answer a little too pat at the time, and that feeling had not faded when he had witnessed Harry's interaction with the young witch. Was there something more than just friendship between them?

It did not matter, Jean-Sebastian decided. Harry was well able to determine his course of life, and as marriage to Fleur did bring its own… unique set of problems—as Jean-Sebastian was acutely aware—if Harry chose a path different from the one he himself had chosen, then Jean-Sebastian could not fault him for it, especially if _he did_ possess feelings for the girl. It was better to not get involved—Harry was trustworthy, and Fleur was more than mature enough to manage her own affairs. That did not mean Jean-Sebastian did not want to know what was happening between them, and he suspected he knew just who to ask…

"Very well," Dumbledore was saying in response to Sirius's words. "But truly the fewer people who are aware of this, the better. Jean-Sebastian, I assume that you will wish to inform your wife, but other than that, no one is to know. Am I clear?"

Once he had extracted the required promise, Dumbledore was all business. "Now, you must understand that I have no proof, and I do not know that there is a way to obtain the required proof. However, I have a set of circumstances that rather neatly fit my suspicions."

Taking a deep breath, Dumbledore looked each of them in the eye in turn and continued, "I believe that Harry's scar is no ordinary scar. In fact, I suspect that on the night his parents were murdered, that Voldemort created a Horcrux which inadvertently lodged itself behind Harry's scar."

"Mon dieu!" Jean-Sebastian exclaimed in time with Sirius's, "Merlin!"

Grimly, Dumbledore nodded. "I take it you are aware of the nature of a Horcrux?"

"A soul anchor," Jean-Sebastian responded. "A method a dark wizard will use to try to cheat death by imbuing a portion of his soul into an object, thereby keeping his own soul from passing on to the next life when he dies. To enable himself to detach a portion of his soul, he has to commit the most offensive crime, which is the most damaging to his own soul—he has to murder someone in cold blood."

"Are you serious?" Sirius exclaimed in horror as Jean-Sebastian finished his explanation. "I found some references to Horcruxes in the Black family library and knew it had something to do with soul magic, and was particularly foul, but I didn't know it was _this_ bad."

Dumbledore's eyes snapped to Sirius and he peered at the other man with a blazing intensity. "There are references to Horcruxes in your family's library?"

"References, yes. But nothing more than that, to the best of my knowledge. My family _has been dark_ for several centuries, after all."

"They must be destroyed," Dumbledore stated decisively. "Knowledge of this magic must be eradicated at all costs to prevent others from making use of it."

Holding his hands up in acquiescence, Sirius said, "I agree with you, Dumbledore. When I was there last year, I went through the books as something to keep me busy. Anything with dark magics or anything I thought was cursed, I set aside and sequestered under the family wards. That will do until we have time to do a more thorough investigation."

"Agreed," said Dumbledore, before he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. "I am rather surprised at _both of you_ knowing of Horcruxes."

"I was Director of France's DMLE for a time," Jean-Sebastian responded. "Knowing of dangerous magics like Horcruxes was part of the job."

"I understand. But I'm sure that you can now see why this information _must_ be kept a secret."

"I can," began Jean-Sebastian, anger beginning to build within him. "But I must admit that I wonder why you have never told Harry of this."

"What was I to say, Jean-Sebastian?" Dumbledore snapped. "I couldn't exactly tell him that I believed he hosted a portion of a madman's soul when he arrived at Hogwarts at the age of eleven. Besides, I cannot be completely certain and I did not wish to burden him, especially since I do not yet know how to remove the Horcrux."

"I suppose not," Jean-Sebastian agreed with some reluctance. And he had to admit the Headmaster had a point. But the situation was now changed and Harry much better able to bear the burden; and besides, the young man _deserved_ to know something which would have such a profound impact on his life. "But you_ do_ believe it can be removed."

"Every magic can be countered, Jean-Sebastian," Dumbledore rumbled, slipping into professor mode. "You should know this. I have not yet discovered a way to remove it, but that does not mean that it does not exist. And ever since I began to suspect this I have not been idle—I have picked up every book on dark magic or esoteric treatise on the soul that I can find, and explored every lead I was able to uncover in an effort to locate a counter-spell. I recently received a tip of several more books for which I have great hopes."

"So Harry is a Horcrux and until he is free of it, Voldemort cannot be killed," Sirius summed up the situation. "Well that's just bloody great."

"That's actually a fallacy," Jean-Sebastian stated. When Sirius looked at him askance, he explained. "Nothing prevents Voldemort from being killed, it is just that he cannot _pass on_ until the Horcrux is gone."

"That may be even worse," was Sirius's glum reply.

"And unfortunately, Sirius, I believe it is much worse than that," Dumbledore stated.

"Worse?" Sirius exclaimed. "How can it be any worse?"

"Simply, I don't believe that Harry's scar is the only Horcrux the dark lord created," was Dumbledore's quiet response.

As Jean-Sebastian and Sirius looked on with dread, the Headmaster produced a small key and opened a drawer on the side of his desk. He produced a small diary from within its confines and placed it on the top of his desk between them. It was small and black, and its pages were warped. It had a large whole in its center, appearing like it had almost been burnt through the leather and paper. It was charred and tattered, and from the chair in which he sat, Jean-Sebastian fancied that he could detect a miasma of evil oozing from the ruined book, almost like the distant smell of a dead animal which had been left to rot in the hot summer sun.

"This is a Horcrux?" Jean-Sebastian asked softly.

"_Was_ a Horcrux," Dumbledore corrected. "This is the diary which Harry destroyed in his second year, after he killed the basilisk. I believe this diary is the first Horcrux which Voldemort created during his years at Hogwarts."

Jean-Sebastian immediately understood the implications. "Mon dieu! How many of these abominations did he create?"

"Of course I only have guesses and conjecture," Dumbledore replied. "But given what I know of the dark lord, and knowing his skill in Arithmancy, I can speculate that he would have used a number which was significant."

"That would mean three, seven, or thirteen," Jean-Sebastian said with a nod.

"Correct."

"Hold on a moment," Sirius interrupted. "How could he make so many? Making a Horcrux splits the soul. After the first he would only have half a soul, a quarter after the second, an eighth after the third, et cetera. How could he split it so many times?"

"Ah, and that is what most would think," Dumbledore responded. "But unfortunately, your assumption is another fallacy. No one really knows the nature of the soul for certain and I do not wish to go off into a tangent, but even if a piece of the soul is broken off from the rest, you cannot assume that it is split exactly in half. My research suggests that actually the soul is fractured into many smaller pieces, and that one of these is drawn off to create the Horcrux, leaving the rest in the body. With a little time, these pieces will once again grow together, though the soul missing a piece of itself renders the creator a little less human each time he creates another."

Considering the situation and what Dumbledore had told them, Jean-Sebastian knew there was potentially no limit to the number Voldemort may have created, other than his own will to continue to pursue his "immortality." "So he could have created many."

"I don't think so," Dumbledore responded. "Though of course I cannot predict with any degree of accuracy just how much information he was able to unearth regarding Horcruxes, he may believe what Sirius stated about how much of the soul is consumed in the creation of a Horcrux. At the very least, I think he would have been cautious of creating too many, given the effect even one has on the person. I believe that too many would leave the creator as almost unrecognizable as human, and quite possibly completely insane. Voldemort fears death and wishes to live forever, but not at the expense of his sanity."

"Three or seven then?" Sirius asked.

Dumbledore nodded. "My guess is seven, including the portion that still resides in his body. If it was three, then with Harry and the diary, there would be no more. I suspect, however, that he has used various enchanted items of great significance to create his Horcruxes, almost in the manner of trophies. I am searching for some confirmation on what I suspect, but have no further, more concrete information to share with you at this time. At the very least, I also suspect that Nagini, his familiar, is also a Horcrux. He appears to have much more control over the snake than he would if it was just a simple familiar."

"But that could then be the reason why Harry was able to dream of the snake," Jean-Sebastian exclaimed. "If they both have Horcruxes in them…"

"That is possible," Dumbledore conceded. "But really immaterial, in any case."

"So what do you plan to do?" Jean-Sebastian asked, knowing that he would give his full assistance to whatever Dumbledore intended.

"I shall continue to search for Voldemort's Horcruxes, and destroy them when I find them," Dumbledore told them. "In the meantime, however, we have other important tasks which must be completed, convincing the Minister of the threat of the dark lord, and moving the Ministry to war footing in order to oppose him, being highest on the priority list."

"Like we have any hope of doing that," Sirius grumbled under his breath, and privately Jean-Sebastian agreed with him.

"Fudge's obstructionism makes it difficult, but we must persevere if we are to hope to counter the Dark Lord," said Dumbledore. "But of more immediate importance is the fact that the secret of the Horcruxes must be safeguarded. Harry's connection with Voldemort is potentially a very dangerous security link, and it must be closed if he is to know the secret. I do not believe the Dark Lord is aware of the connection as of yet, but should he learn of it and know that we are aware of his Horcruxes, it could be disastrous."

"Occlumency?"

"In a word, yes. If Harry applies himself, he should be proficient enough very quickly to withstand all but a concentrated frontal assault, which could only be done if they are in close proximity with one another. I can have him start working with Severus once he returns to the castle after the New Year."

"Albus, are you barmy?" Sirius demanded. "Snape _hates_ Harry with a passion, a sentiment which is returned in equal measure, I might add, and rightly so."

"I am aware of the antipathy between them, Sirius, but I believe that Severus is most capable of doing this. And if I order him to do so, I believe he will set aside his feelings and do as I ask. He wishes for Voldemort's defeat as much as we do, I assure you."

"No," Jean-Sebastian contradicted. "Sirius is right, and I will not allow this man any more authority over Harry than he already has."

"Jean-Sebastian, I understand your reticence in the matter of Severus and his relationship with Harry," Dumbledore said in a soothing tone of voice. "But Severus is very skilled and is more than capable of teaching him properly. I cannot do it myself as I have far too many other items to deal with—Severus is really the only choice."

"Not the only choice," Jean-Sebastian disagreed. It was time to be firm—Snape could not be allowed to instruct Harry in so delicate and critical a matter. "Fleur can teach him. She has been learning Occlumency for several years now and is now quite skilled—I began teaching her before she attended school. I will speak to her and ask her to teach Harry when he returns to Hogwarts."

Even Dumbledore had to admit that this was a superior plan as, regardless of whatever hold he had over Severus Snape, it would logically be easier for Harry to learn from someone he trusted. They agreed that Jean-Sebastian would approach Fleur to enlist her help, and that they would begin when they returned to school in the New Year.

"Then I believe we have our plan," Dumbledore stated.

"We do," Jean-Sebastian responded, before fixing Dumbledore with a knowing look. "When did you intend to inform Harry?"

"I believe it would be better to wait until after Christmas," Dumbledore responded somewhat reluctantly. Jean-Sebastian knew he had been hoping that the discussion had changed their minds about the need to inform Harry, but Jean-Sebastian had to give the man credit for not obstructing them any further. "This will be Harry's first Christmas with your family, and I would prefer to wait until after to burden him with this so that we do not ruin his enjoyment of the holidays."

That in and of itself told Jean-Sebastian that, whatever mistakes he had made with Harry in the past, Dumbledore had the boy's best interests at heart. He agreed that there was nothing lost in waiting an extra ten days or so and let the matter drop, and soon he and Sirius took their leave and Flooed back to the Ambassador's Manor, and Sirius, subsequently back to Chateau Delacour. Jean-Sebastian sat wearily in the chair at his desk, considering all that he had learned that morning. The whole situation had suddenly become a lot more complicated, and there was nothing he could do about it, though his every instinct screamed at him to leave England behind and protect his family. But his course was already set and honor—not to mention his sense of loyalty to Harry and his own common sense—dictated that he stay the course.

* * *

Having had a full day to catch up on sleep and to come to terms with the vision he had seen, Harry woke on Thursday morning feeling much better than he had the previous day. The thought of being pulled into the mind of a large, mutant attack snake was still frightening to be sure, but he had been able to at least console himself with the fact that some good had come from it. He was truly fond of Mr. Weasley and was happy he had been able to do something to help his friend's father. In fact, Hermione was arriving with her parents to the manor that day and Harry had obtained permission from Jean-Sebastian to go and visit him today before they were to depart for France on the following day.

Hermione arrived by Portkey late in the morning with her parents in tow, and was welcomed to the manor by the Delacours. Harry, of course, was excited to see his friend, though they had only been separated for a few days, and was greatly anticipating the coming holidays—he just knew it would be the best holiday he had ever had.

"Wow, someone is excited!" Hermione said with a laugh once Harry had completed his rather exuberant greeting.

"I'm always excited to see you, Hermione," Harry replied with a grin.

He turned to greet her parents politely, and was afforded the same warmth in response. Her parents, William and Elizabeth, were friendly and open, and insisted that there would be "none of that Mr. or Mrs. Granger stuff," instead telling Harry that he should call them by their given names. William was tall, slim and athletic, and possessed a certain air which projected confidence, not to mention a little intimidation, for anyone who would possibly take a fancy to his little girl in the coming years. That it may be _Harry himself_ who would ultimately fall into that role, if Fleur's wishes came about, was not exactly a comforting thought. It was even more uncomfortable to consider it when Harry thought of the fact that in the Christian Muggle world, monogamy had been an accepted practice for many years, and that they would not likely accept such an arrangement with any degree of sanguinity. Elizabeth, by contrast, was warm and friendly and extremely engaging, not to mention being a carbon copy of Hermione, possessing the same brown hair and warm brown eyes, not to mention her height and facial features. Though to be completely accurate, Harry supposed that it was _Hermione_ who was a carbon copy of _Elizabeth_, rather than the reverse.

After a few moments of polite conversation, the three teens—accompanied by Gabrielle, who tagged along behind them—excused themselves and left the room to go catch up on the events of the previous few days. Hermione had not had anything remarkable happen in her first few days away from school; she had mainly occupied herself by spending time with her parents and getting some Christmas shopping done, though she was laughingly adamant in not spoiling the surprise of what she had purchased for them for Christmas. Harry was well aware that she was not about to share such intelligence with him, but he teased her about it anyway, earning himself a mock-serious reproof in response.

When the conversation turned to what had happened at the manor, it became much weightier. His explanation of the dream and the actions he had taken to inform the Headmaster and his guardian of the attack prompted sympathy from Hermione, and a little deeper hero-worship from Gabrielle, who had not managed to wheedle the story from him the previous day. She was more than a little perturbed at the fact that she had slept through all of the excitement, regardless of Harry's protests that he wished it had never even happened.

"That's awful, Harry!" Hermione commiserated once he had completed his tale. "But thank goodness you were able to help Mr. Weasley."

"Yeah, that's the good part of it, I guess."

"It will be okay, Harry. Remember, you have Fleur and me looking after you. Voldemort wouldn't dare try anything!"

"Why?" Harry teased with a grin. "You'd study him to death if he tried anything?"

Hermione sniffed with disdain. "I'll have you know I am more than capable of hexing his bits off if he doesn't behave himself."

The conversation was light and silly, but it provided Harry with exactly what he needed—a relief of stress and a little lighthearted banter at the expense of what had been a very serious situation. Harry suspected that Hermione well knew what he needed and had provided it deliberately. She was such a good friend—he was not sure what he ever would have done without her.

Later that afternoon, the group, including Harry, Hermione, Fleur and Jean-Sebastian, gathered together to Floo to St. Mungo's where Arthur Weasley was staying and due to be released the following day. Harry was looking forward to seeing the jovial wizard, and replacing the last image he had of the man with something infinitely happier.

They arrived at the hospital and were directed toward the room in which Mr. Weasley was staying. As they walked, Harry looked around with interest, noting the white walls and narrow hallways. With the exception of the lack of electronic equipment which would have been a fixture in any modern hospital, St. Mungo's was not very different than any hospital he would have seen in the Muggle world.

They rounded a corner and approached Mr. Weasley's room, and as they were walking, the door opened and the Weasley matriarch stepped into the corridor. Her face lit up in genuine pleasure at the sight of Harry, though he did notice a tightening of her eyes when she glanced at his companions. At his side, Harry could almost feel Hermione stiffening as she saw Ron's mother—she had not seen the woman since the infamous howler had arrived, after all, and Harry knew that her feelings for Molly Weasley were somewhat less than cordial. Molly did not acknowledge Harry's companions—she instead ignored them completely and approached Harry with a large smile on her face, and with her arms held out wide for one of her infamous hugs.

Neatly sidestepping her, Harry held up his hand and, catching Jean-Sebastian's eye, he motioned for the man to precede him into the room. The older man seemed to catch his meaning as he shepherded Hermione and Fleur from the corridor, leaving Harry with a confused and slightly flustered Mrs. Weasley.

"Harry?" she said with a small frown. "Is something wrong?"

"Unfortunately, there is, Mrs. Weasley."

She smiled at him and patted his arm. "What is it? I will do whatever I can to help."

"I certainly hope you will," was Harry's response. He kept his voice calm and even as he was speaking, knowing that she would likely not take kindly to what he had to say. But though he was only fifteen, and she would undoubtedly think that he was overstepping his place, she needed to hear this.

"You see, Mrs. Weasley, I could not help but notice your rather cold greeting toward not only my betrothed, but also to my best friend."

Her eyes narrowed and she peered at him with some affront. "I assure you that I was not unkind to them."

"No," Harry agreed, "but you _have been_ unkind to them, especially to Hermione with that howler you sent to her. And to be perfectly blunt, you've never apologized to her for that, even thought you publicly humiliated her in the Great Hall in front of all the students."

"Harry Potter!" Molly screeched. "I will not have you reprimanding me! You are just fifteen years old and should remember your place. I raised you better than that!"

"You didn't raise me, Mrs. Weasley," Harry replied in a quiet voice. She was taken aback, to the extent that she almost physically took a step back, and her face fell. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley, but it's the truth. I spent two weeks with your family before second year, and two more before fourth. I'm sorry but four weeks out of the fifteen years of my life does not qualify as you 'raising me.'"

Molly sputtered at this, but could come up with nothing to refute his claim, as it was the simple truth. Instead, she glared at him and snapped, "You should be more grateful that we took you in and treated you like one of our own!"

"I _am_ very grateful," said Harry. "I needed friends badly, and your family provided them. And though it was only for a short time, you also provided a loving, nurturing environment, and I appreciate it very much."

"But now that you have _family_," she spat the word resentfully, "grander than the Weasleys, you have thrown us over entirely. I should have expected it, I suppose."

"And that is where you are wrong," Harry responded, still keeping his composure, but injecting a hint of steel into his tone. "I still consider Ron to be one of my best friends, and Ginny has become more of a friend since the summer. I don't think I even need to mention the twins—even though you think they are wild and lack seriousness, they are the best friends a bloke could hope for. I would not be here if I had 'thrown you over.'"

"Then why are you giving me this attitude, young man?"

"Because you hurt my friend and haven't apologized, and you continue to treat my betrothed as though she is unworthy. _Nothing_ could be further from the truth," Harry emphasized. "Fleur and her family are among the best people I have ever known and I am honored that she is now my intended."

Though she said nothing, Molly's affront was evident in her stiff posture and her scowl of disapproval. Harry did not want to offend her or belittle her, but he was more than willing to take her to task for her behavior. It was a mark of how much he had changed. The old Harry Potter would never have spoken this way to his friend's mother; it would have seemed too much like talking back to his uncle—something to avoid at all costs, due to the man's temper.

"Mrs. Weasley, I want to maintain good relationships with your family, and I think I have for the most part. But I also require you to treat my intended with the respect she deserves and apologize to Hermione. Until you can do so, I don't think we have anything further to say to each other."

"I suppose you want a public apology?" Mrs. Weasley accused in a dispirited tone. "Perhaps I should send another howler apologizing or take out an ad in the Prophet?"

"How you do it is your choice, of course," Harry said. "But I don't necessarily think that humiliating yourself is required. But an apology needs to be made directly to Hermione, however you accomplish it."

Having had his say, Harry nodded to his friends' mother and entered the room, leaving her in the corridor, looking downcast and staring at the floor.

The mood in the room appeared to be somewhat tense as the Weasleys in attendance—besides Mr. Weasley, the twins, Ginny, and Ron were all there—appeared to suspect what had kept him. His easy greeting to the entire room served to dispel some of the stress, while Mr. Weasley's answer and predilection to joviality went a long way toward restoring equilibrium to the room.

"Well here's our hero!" Mr. Weasley joked, showing a large smile to Harry.

Blushing slightly, Harry responded, "I'm no hero, Mr. Weasley. I just happened to be in a position to send a bit of help."

"Ah, but you are a hero to me, Harry." He leaned forward and extended a hand, which Harry grasped firmly in his own. "Thank you for once again coming to the aid of me and my family. I truly appreciate it, young man."

"Oh Harry, you're my hero too!" one of the twins piped up in a contrived tone of worship.

"Simply dreamy!" exclaimed the other.

"We're so thankful for your manliness and your tendency to save us from monsters!"

"But I really think you've gone about it all wrong."

"Too right, Gred," continued the first, with a sly wink at his brother. "You're supposed to slay the beast first."

"And then ride off into the sunset with the fair maiden."

"You've already got the maiden," said Gred, with a sly wink at Fleur.

"But you've still got some work ahead of you for the rest!"

Mr. Weasley shook his head at his twin sons. "Can't you two ever be serious about anything? Even your father's savior?"

"Of course we can," said Forge agreeably.

"But the tension in the room needed deflating," agreed Gred.

"You've been saved, all is well, and it's time to let the gloominess go!"

"Hey guys," Harry said, pointedly ignoring their byplay. He also greeted Ron and Ginny in the same manner, before sitting on a nearby chair. "How are you feeling, Mr. Weasley?"

"Pretty good now, actually. I get released tomorrow, so I'll be home in time for Christmas."

"Christmas in St. Mungo's!" spoke up one of the twins. "That would be pretty bad."

"For once, I have to agree with you, son. Happily, I won't have to experience it."

Tactfully, after thanking Harry for his assistance, Mr. Weasley proceeded to let the matter drop, which was truly a relief for Harry. He did not feel as though he had done anything heroic, after all—he had merely seen something in a dream and acted upon it. Anyone could have done the same in his position.

The visit continued for some time and though the atmosphere might have been gloomy in other circumstances, it was quite cheerful for the most part. Mr. Weasley spoke of his latest interest in Muggle contraptions, the twins were their usual irrepressible selves, and laughter and conversation abounded between them all. Ron and Ginny privately extended their thanks to Harry, after which they spoke of their plans for Christmas.

They were nearing the end of their stay before the door to Mr. Weasley's room opened and Mrs. Weasley walked in, followed by a tall, red-haired man, who bore a remarkable resemblance to the Weasley patriarch.

"Bill!" Harry greeted him, remembering fondly the previous year when Bill had come to Hogwarts to watch the third task.

"Hey Harry," Bill stated as he walked over and grasped Harry's hand, enveloping him in a gruff hug. "Thanks again, sport. It seems like battling basilisks and dragons is not enough for you—now you've come to my father's rescue."

"I didn't do a whole lot, Bill," said Harry, as he colored in embarrassment.

"You did enough, Harry, and that is what's important."

Nodding, Harry accepted the praise before changing the subject. Bill was like a much-loved elder brother to Harry, and he appreciated his willingness to allow the subject to drop, much as his father had.

What Harry did not miss was the frequent looks that Bill stole when he thought Fleur was not looking, though to be honest, Harry did remember similar behavior from the man the previous year, during the day before the third task. He was not overt in his interest, and he obviously knew that Fleur was now betrothed to Harry. But it was also obvious that he was a little smitten by the young French Veela, and Harry wondered what might have happened, and if Fleur would have returned his interest, had the situation been different. As he was discreet, and Harry was well aware of the interest his betrothed generated, he said nothing, though he did share an expressive glance with Fleur when no one else was looking.

The visitors only stayed for a few more minutes before they excused themselves, amid much wishing of happiness for the holiday season, and promises to meet up again at the express. As they walked away from the room, Harry reflected on his friendship with the quirky family. They really had provided him with help and love when he had needed it, regardless of his words to Mrs. Weasley—or perhaps, in accordance with them. Hopefully, Mrs. Weasley would see the wisdom of his words—if he was allowed to be so conceited in considering his thoughts "wisdom"—and apologize. She _had been_ the first mother-like figure he had ever had, and he would prefer to maintain good relations with her. Only time would tell.

* * *

_Updated 07/04/2013  
_


	31. Chapter 30 – Christmas Cheer

**Chapter 29 – Christmas Cheer**

The day after visiting Mr. Weasley in the hospital was the day Harry, the Grangers, and all the members of his new family were to depart for the Delacours' home in France, and Harry could not be more excited. He had always known that there was more to Christmas than a mountain of presents for Dudley and smelly old socks—or worse—for himself, and he was looking forward to finally discovering what that something was. Oh, he had spent Christmases at Hogwarts before which were better than those he had spent with the Dursleys, and in the company of friends, but his experiences had never included spending the holidays with a loving family. He could not remember ever looking forward to anything more.

Luckily, Chateau Delacour was only a short Floo trip away from the Ambassador's Manor and, though Harry still was not precisely enamored of Floo travel, it beat sitting in a plane for a couple of hours or driving the whole day. At least it was over quickly—then they could get to the fun.

Breakfast was accomplished in a quick and efficient manner, and the laughter and conversation around the table was infectious and cheerful. Though it was not commented upon, Harry felt it was obvious that the others were looking forward to their upcoming holiday as much as he was, though for different reasons, he suspected. For the Delacours, Harry thought that they would be happy to spend some time in France and away from the tense situation in Britain, while the Grangers simply appeared happy to be there in the company of good friends, and perhaps, more especially, to be in the company of their only daughter, who they did not see for the majority of the year. It was obvious that whatever the troubles with Voldemort and his followers, the Grangers had thus far remained unaffected by them, and consequently did not need to deal with the worry and fear they engendered. Harry was not certain how much Hermione had told them of what was happening, but it was certain that they were still essentially unaware of the troubles which beset the British Wizarding world.

The realization made him appreciate Jean-Sebastian, Apolline, and their family all that much more—they had left France and its relatively stable environment and willingly put themselves at risk in England for his benefit. And this did not even mention that though they were on the opposite side of the conflict from the dark lord and would be targets by their very visible support for Harry, Apolline and her daughters' very nature ensured they would be reviled and hated by the bigots. Harry shuddered to think of what would happen to them if they were to ever fall into the hands of the Death Eaters.

Shaking the thoughts away, Harry left the table with his friends to retrieve his things from his room. Yes, he was grateful to his new guardians and appreciative of their support; now was a time to be happy in the company of friends and family, not to worry about what might be. If it came to that, Harry would put his life on the line to defend them—it was all he needed to remember. The rest would take care of itself.

By the time he had retrieved his bags, Harry was once again in a state of excitement for the upcoming holidays, and well aware that the grin on his face probably made him appear silly. He decided that he did not care.

"Well, someone certainly appears pretty keyed up," Mrs. Granger said as he stepped into the room which contained the Floo.

Harry returned his closest friend's mother's smile. "I've been looking forward to this since summer!"

Elizabeth Granger laughed lightly at his words. Hermione's parents were truly nice people, and upon their arrival the previous day, they had immediately attempted to put him at ease, insisting at once that they be referred to by their first names, rather than any of that "Mr. or Mrs. Granger nonsense." Having already gotten used to calling the Delacours by their first names—again by their own insistence—Harry had had no problem making the switch in favor of Hermione's parents.

Much like her daughter, Elizabeth was studious and smart, and clearly at home with a book settled in her hands. She was also quite obviously the origin of Hermione's looks, though her hair was much shorter and styled in a straight wave down the back of her neck, rather than Hermione's longer, wavier curls. And William Granger might have appeared intimidating, as he towered over Harry, standing nearly six feet, two inches tall. Any sense of intimidation, however, disappeared the moment his jovial voice was heard. In reality, Hermione's father was essentially happy-go-lucky, and a bit of a joker. Sometimes, Harry thought that he resembled the Weasley twins to a certain extent—a thought which caused him to shudder—but Harry soon learned that his sense of humor was much more benign than the terrible twins', and did not extend to practical jokes.

Another thing which had surprised Harry was the age of Hermione's parents. Her mother did not look a day over thirty, and though he had assumed that she was actually much older, he had been surprised to learn that his initial estimate was fairly close to the truth. Hermione's mother was only 34, while Mr. Granger only 35. Hermione, when asked, had told him that they had been childhood sweethearts, and had married immediately upon leaving high school against their respective families' wishes. Hermione had been the only part of the equation which had not been expected, as they had intended to wait until at least completing dental school before having children. But they had obviously been successful in not only raising their daughter, but also in completing their schooling and building a successful dental practice in only a few years. Of course, with a brilliant daughter like Hermione, they had not regretted it for a moment, or in Elizabeth's words, "How could we regret having such a wonderful daughter?"

"Well, Harry," William Granger's voice broke into Harry's thoughts, "have you given any more thought to going golfing in France?"

One thing Harry had learned from spending a little time with Hermione's parents was that William was an absolute golfing fanatic, and that Hermione and Elizabeth were somewhat amusedly indulgent with his fascination. Of course, this did not mean that they were willing to participate—neither of them had any interest in the sport, a state Harry immediately understood, even without Elizabeth's next words.

"Now William, I'm not sure that Harry considers walking around chasing a little white ball to be a lot of fun," Elizabeth said with a laugh, echoing a well worn joke.

"Maybe you should let the boy answer," was William's good-natured response. "He might turn out to be an enthusiast like me."

"Heaven forbid!"

But William only snickered before he raised an eyebrow at Harry, which Harry returned with a smile. "I'm not sure I'll be any good, but I'll be happy to go along with you."

"Don't leave me out," Jean-Sebastian said as he entered the room. "It's been a long time since I've had a good game of golf."

That had been another surprise—that Jean-Sebastian had been out golfing. As Jean-Sebastian had pointed out, he had had several friends growing up who had been Muggleborns, and as the Delacours had always been a family who had insisted on knowing something of the Muggle world, it perhaps should not have been surprising that he had played.

"And maybe we can get Sirius to go with us too," Jean-Sebastian continued with a wink at Harry. "I'm sure we'd all have a laugh at seeing _him_ play a round of golf."

Harry could only agree with him, wondering at the antics the Marauder would get up to on a golf course. Very likely reveal the Wizarding world to any golfers in the area, unless Harry missed his guess.

"Dad, are you bothering Harry about golfing again?" Hermione demanded as she stepped into the room, Fleur and Gabrielle following behind.

"Maybe you should let Harry decide if I'm bothering him," was William's jovial reply. "The boy doesn't appear distressed to me."

Hermione and Elizabeth just exchanged a look and smiled at one another, leaving Harry to say in a quiet voice, "I really don't mind. I think it will be lots of fun."

He hung his head hiding the almost overwhelming feeling of gratitude and belonging as he witnessed the looks passing between the occupants of the room, reveling in the attention of these father figures, something he had never received while living with the Dursleys. It was obvious that the rest of those in the room were also aware of that fact, and the fact that they knew about his upbringing caused him to feel a surge of self-consciousness, though he knew that they did not hold it against him.

In the next moment, he felt an arm go around his shoulders, and he looked up to see Hermione regarding him with a knowing look. "It's okay if you want to go, Harry. But feel free to tell dad off if he annoys you about it."

"You know, Harry," William suddenly spoke up, "if I didn't already know you were betrothed to the lovely Miss Delacour, I would be thinking that I would need to give you the talk about the perils of dating my daughter, given how she's hanging off of you."

"Father!" Hermione exclaimed in mortification. But her father only smirked and turned his attention to his wife, who was rolling her eyes.

Intensely embarrassed for his own part, Harry went to great effort to avoid meeting anyone else's eyes. It was not so much William's words, but the fact that the man was completely unaware that the relationship he had just implied _appeared to be possible_. He tried not to think of the reaction the man would likely have if Hermione _did decide_ that she wanted to have a relationship with him. Harry doubted he would be so congenial. It was something worth considering.

"Well then, shall we go now?" Jean-Sebastian suggested, his look at Harry intimating that he knew what was passing through Harry's mind at the moment. Not knowing how to act or what to think, Harry immediately agreed and, setting his bag down with the other luggage which would be transported to France by the house-elves, he moved to the Floo and stepped through it.

Grateful for the lessons he had received in how to navigate the Floo properly, Harry was able to keep his feet on the other side. The first thing he noticed was Sirius standing there waiting for him. The Marauder stepped forward and engulfed Harry in a manly embrace.

"Welcome to France, Harry!" Sirius said, enthusiasm evident in his wide smile and the slaps he planted on Harry's back.

For his own part, Harry was astonished in the changes in appearance and demeanor in his godfather. Gone was the emaciated wild man he had been upon his escape from prison, and he was even almost unrecognizable from the man he had been even when had stood trial. His hair was full and rich, reaching almost down to his shoulders, his skin was tanned, he walked upright and proud, and even the haunted gleam of his eyes appeared to have been replaced with contentment and peace. His time in recovery had certainly been of benefit and Harry was thrilled, wanting nothing more than to have his fully healed and happy godfather in his life.

"I'm glad to be here, Sirius," Harry said quietly, almost feeling overwhelmed at emotions which were coursing through his body.

While they were exchanging their greetings, several others had arrived through the Floo, and a squeal erupted, as Hermione darted forward to make her own greetings to the man they had helped save.

"Ah, Hermione, it's good to see you too," said Sirius, as the excited witch stepped away from him. "Have you been keeping Harry out of trouble?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "As if I could possibly manage to keep _him_ out of trouble."

The gathered group laughed, even as Harry playfully smacked Hermione on the shoulder. "I seem to remember someone else being neck deep in my so-called 'adventures,'" he said slyly.

"It's not polite to point that out, Harry," Hermione responded in a stage whisper, causing the entire group, all of whom had now arrived, to break out in laughter.

"It's good to have you here," Sirius finally said, greeting everyone else. "And good job with that nasty piece of work Umbridge. Getting her out of the castle must have made things much easier."

"You have no idea," Harry acknowledged. "I've got a lot to tell you."

"As I have to tell you," Sirius replied with a smirk.

Curious, Harry was about to respond when Apolline interrupted, "Maybe we should do that once we've all settled in."

There was a general murmur of agreement at Apolline's suggestion, and the entire group made their way from the study, in which the Floo was situated, and out to each of their rooms. As Harry was staying in the same room he had occupied previously and knew the way well due to his time there in the summer, he quickly stowed his things—which had already been placed there by the ever-efficient house-elves—before making his way down to the large living area the family generally used when in residence.

The room had changed since the summer, primarily due to the sparkling decorations which now decorated it, and in fact could be seen throughout the house. The tree was tall—several meters tall, sticking well up into the high vaulted room—and was liberally festooned with ribbons, garlands, and sparkling lights of every color. Underneath it all were piles of presents, brightly wrapped in papers, ribbons and strings, sorted haphazardly and spilling out into the room. In addition there were decorations of every type—globes, candles, trinkets, figurines of Père Noël, the nativity, and many other sorts, not to mention a large, sprawling Christmas winter village in one corner, fully functioning and almost alive. Harry, together with Hermione who soon joined him, spent some minutes looking over the village, marveling at the exquisite detail of it all—it had clearly been animated by magic as the villagers moved throughout the scene, children played, lights twinkled, and from time to time, one of the figures would even stop what they were doing, and wave up at the onlookers. It was one of the most incredible things Harry had ever seen.

"This is amazing!" Harry exclaimed, watching in fascination.

"Thank you, Harry," an amused voice spoke from behind. Apolline had come into the room at some point and was watching the two English teens with amusement.

"Maman truly loves Christmas," Fleur stated from the side where she sat on a sofa. "It's her favorite holiday of the year."

"She charmed the set herself!" Gabrielle chimed in from her seat beside Fleur.

"It's one of the best Christmas decorations I've ever seen," Harry said, meaning every word of it. "It's amazing!"

Apolline's returning smile contained a fond quality Harry could almost see, prompting a lump to appear in his throat and the hints of tears in his eyes. "We want this Christmas to be very special for you, Harry. After all, it's your first Christmas as part of our family."

The word "family" caused Harry to choke up even more. Throughout his life, all he had wanted was a family to call his own, and even though the Weasleys had been good to him in the times he had spent with them, this was the first time he had ever felt the warmth of true love, respect, and friendship which was the hallmark of any family. They were not his parents and would never be, and Harry knew that they would never attempt to be. He knew that he could look up to them as a substitute for his parents and that Gabrielle would be the sister he never had. And Fleur… Fleur would be his companion and wife—he could already feel that he would be deliriously happy with her.

"I was wondering something," Hermione spoke up from Harry's side, and Harry, seeing her surreptitious glance in his direction, correctly deduced that she had spoken up to distract attention from him so that he could regain his composure.

Apolline smiled and nodded for Hermione to continue.

"I've always wondered why Christmas is celebrated in the Wizarding world. I don't know that I've ever heard of a church or anything and most people I've met don't seem to be overly religious."

Exchanging a glance with her husband, Apolline smiled at Hermione. Even the Grangers appeared interested, though Harry was not certain that they were overly religious either.

"That is a very good question, Hermione," the Delacour matron observed. "And it has a very good answer. You see, many of us _are_ still religious, though technically, we don't belong to any church."

Frowning, Hermione asked, "What do you mean?"

"The answer lies back in the witch hunts," Jean-Sebastian answered. "You know of the witch hunts I presume?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, there have been many witch hunts, some as far back as ancient Greece or the Roman empire."

"That is correct," Jean-Sebastian affirmed. "The witch hunts were often a failure. Oh, there were definitely executions of both witches and wizards, but for the most part, innocent men and women who were picked up for being strange, looking different, or just being though of as being loners. Real magicals had more tools to protect themselves, even centuries ago, as long as they were able to keep their heads and keep their hands on their wands."

"But what you must understand," Apolline took up the explanation, "is that such burnings were usually done by religious zealots, and the churches at the time had a hand in prosecuting these women. As such, organized religion—especially in Europe in the late middle ages—was not exactly looked upon with favor. It's hard to support the local religion when the leader of that religion is persecuting you and screaming to his flock that you are a godless heathen.

"In the late 1600s, relations between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world became particularly strained with the various persecutions of magicals, and in particular, due to the inquisitions of the Roman Catholic Church. The Statute of Secrecy was enacted, separating the two worlds and this left the magicals without access to churches—magical priests were by this time almost unknown. Besides, there likely would not have been many who would have been willing to attend church by that time anyway."

Fascinated, Harry listened to the explanation, wishing that Binns knew something about this, rather than all the Goblin Rebellions which he typically droned on about. Maybe he'd actually stay awake in History class, if it dealt with more actual history.

"But of course, that left many people without a place to worship," Jean-Sebastian continued the narration. "Take France for example. This country has always been heavily Catholic, even after the events of the Reformation. But magical attendance at church had been in steady decline for some time, due to the persecutions. Some still attended at times, keeping their nature carefully secret, if only to be able to continue to worship. But even that practice halted over time.

"But that didn't mean that the people had any less faith, but that they now did not have any direction in which to express that faith. So, while church attendance essentially became a thing of the past, many still practiced their faith in their own way, saying their own prayers, reading their Bibles, and trying to follow that which they knew by themselves."

Though she clearly understood what was being explained, Hermione still had a frown on her face. "But wouldn't that lead to fracturing and many different traditions?"

"Indeed it does," agreed Jean-Sebastian. "Take my family, for example. Religion is not a large part of our lives, but we do still practice some of the traditions of the Catholic faith, especially around Christmas and Easter. In time, some of the more recent traditions, such as our Christmas tree," Jean-Sebastian gestured to the massive tree, "the Child's story of Father Christmas, and other things have also crept into our customs as well. I personally believe in the creation story and in Jesus Christ, though I believe religions in general have ceased to be mouthpieces for God, as they have persecuted some of God's children. He created us as well as the Muggles, after all. But our family traditions are undoubtedly different from those of other families, simply due to the fact that we don't, as a society, talk about them very much."

Hermione was silent for several moments as she digested all she had been told. It made sense, Harry thought. Though he himself was not overtly religious—the Dursleys had rarely gone to church, essentially being Christmas and Easter Christians—and they had never, in his memory, allowed him to go. His "unnatural ways" had rendered him a godless freak, after all, and attendance was deemed unnecessary for him. Personally, Harry had always considered them hypocrites, but he was not about to say that to Vernon—though his uncle had rarely actually laid a hand on him, _that_ might have prompted a thrashing if he'd been stupid enough to say it.

"That's curious," Hermione finally responded. "I never saw anything like that in England, though the Weasleys were the only family I actually stayed with. Certainly none of the students at Hogwarts displayed much of an interest in religion."

Jean-Sebastian chuckled. "How many children are serious or spiritual enough to actually be interested in religion?" he asked rhetorically. "And England is a little different in any case. English magicals often showed little dedication to the tenets of their faith, probably because they were far enough away from the center of early organized religion that it was not a part of their every day lives."

"And it's gotten even worse since the rise of Pureblood bigotry," Sirius interjected with a derisive snort. "It has something to do with the fact that a Pureblood supremacist cannot fathom the thought that there is _anything_ above them, even a God."

"Then what do they believe as far as a creation story?" Harry asked with some interest.

"They try not to think about it," was Sirius's blunt response. "To a Pureblood, bloodlines are everything, and the ones who are most concerned with their bloodlines can trace them back a thousand years or more. Anyone further back is not worth their time or energy."

"Thank you," Hermione said with a smile. "I think I understand."

"I think you will find, my dear, that there are many similarities between what you have normally done for your own Christmas celebration, and what you will find here," said Apolline. "In fact, now that you have seen our tree, come out to the front of the castle and we will show you our pride and joy of the Christmas season."

The group agreed and soon they were all trooping from the room, following the elder Delacours. The rest of the house, though Harry had not truly looked before, was decorated in the same manner as the room they had just left, with ribbons of all colors, holly boughs, and seemingly every nook and cranny stuffed with trinkets of all kinds. But contrary to what Harry might have thought, the overall effect was anything but garish—it instead bespoke a pride of home and joy of the season which, if Harry was to think about it, was completely different from the Dursleys' almost perfunctory celebration of the Christmas season.

The entrance to the chateau soon appeared, and Harry followed the others outside, stepping into a veritable fairy land of winter beauties. The chateau was located in the foothills of the French Alps not far from Switzerland, and the weather was a little more conducive to a traditional cold and snowy Christmas than its proximity to the Mediterranean would suggest. It had clearly snowed the night before, as the ground was coated with a blanket of new white snow, and though the air was crisp, it was not overly cold to any who were used to the more extreme Scotland winter. All of this faded to the background in an instant, however, as the visitors' eyes were immediately arrested by the most incredible nativity scene Harry had ever seen in his life. It was life-sized and consisted of all the traditional figures which would normally grace such a scene, but whereas the one he had often seen at the local church had been equally large, this one was exquisite in the detailing of the carving and painting, and Harry suspected that if one were to look at it from a distance, the characters would almost seem alive.

"This is our family nativity scene," Jean-Sebastian said, "in French, our la Crèche de Noël."

"Well that truly is amazing," William complimented with an appreciative smile. "No one would accuse me of being overly religious, but this is what Christmas is all about, is it not?"

"It is indeed, my friend," replied Jean-Sebastian. "I think sometimes the world as a whole tends to get a little too caught up in the traditions of gifts and all this nonsense of Père Noël, and completely forgets that we are actually celebrating the birth of Christ."

"Did you make these?" Harry asked, eying the figures which looked like they were brand new.

"No, these are several hundred years old. They were created by a brother of one of my ancestors. In 1779, my ancestor Pierre Delacour married a Muggleborn by the name of Marie Deschamps. Marie had a younger brother who was stricken with a disease of the mind. While he was brilliant, he was emotionally incapable of dealing with the world, as the presence of anyone not intimately known to him caused him to panic. But he was also very talented with his hands. He was the one who carved these for his sister's first Christmas as a gift. They have become one of my family's most priceless heirlooms, and are proudly displayed out on our front lawn every year at Christmas."

The group stood outside admiring the nativity set for several moments before Gabrielle, who had appeared impatient to commandeer some of Harry's time, suddenly had enough. She grasped him by the hand firmly and dragged him back into the house to take what she considered to be an overdue tour of what had been done for the festive season. As Harry allowed himself to be dragged away, he managed to catch Fleur's glance. She merely laughed and shooed him away with her younger sister, knowing as she did Gabrielle's almost hero worship.

Harry was more than willing to go along with the young girl. That Christmas promised to be the best he had ever had!

* * *

In truth, it _was_ the best Christmas for Harry. For an attention and affection starved young man, the sights and sounds, the activities, all carefully planned by their hosts, the customs which truly made it a season to celebrate, all rolled into a series of events which Harry lapped up as though he were a dog, dying from thirst.

First, as he had promised his best friend's father, they went golfing the very next day, and as Jean-Sebastian had said, Sirius was almost gleeful at the opportunity to try something new. Of course, that was not to say that he was ready to follow the rules… Sirius's antics were at their most outrageous that day. He used his borrowed clubs almost as though they were just sticks, flailing at his ball in a most amusing fashion, while using every underhanded trick to gain some advantage. He vanished Harry's ball at least three separate times, took to using his wand to try to banish a ball in flight in another direction—and had even succeeded once or twice!—and generally provided laughter for the others, particularly Jean-Sebastian and William, who took their game much more seriously. In fact, he almost got them into trouble on one hole, as he, true to Harry's prediction, almost got caught using his wand by some other golfers when he banished his ball toward the hole, and then claimed that he had used his putter to do the honors. If the group behind them had been even a few seconds faster, he would have been caught.

For Harry himself, he found that he was better at the game than he would have had a right to expect, being a pure beginner.

"That's the way to do it, Harry!" William exclaimed after Harry had managed to get off a particularly good tee shot about halfway into their game. "We'll make a golfer out of you yet!"

All in all, it was good fun, and Harry was glad he had been persuaded to accompany the man to the course.

After their time on the course, they met the rest of the party in Marseilles, and spent the rest of the day finishing off some last minute Christmas shopping. They then ate a wonderful French dinner at an expensive restaurant before returning to the chateau for the night.

* * *

On Christmas Eve the whole party gathered in the living room for an event which was much looked forward to by the whole party. The night before, when discussing the topic, Jean-Sebastian had informed them all that it was tradition in the Delacour family for the entire family to go out into the neighboring woods and to cut the Yule Log which would be used in their fireplace on Christmas morning. Needless to say that they were all looking forward to the experience.

"Did you do anything like this in England?" Harry asked Hermione as they walked, all bundled up against the cold of the late December morning.

"No," said Hermione with a smile. "Though there may be some parts of England where they do this sort of thing, I grew up close to London, and we couldn't exactly go to the local park and cut down a tree."

"Unfortunately, the cutting of the Yule Log has become somewhat of a forgotten tradition," Fleur said from Harry's other side. "There are some like us who still observe it, but relatively few still do."

"What is it for?" asked Harry curiously, not truly knowing much about the traditions of his betrothed's homeland.

"It's for our Christmas fire," Fleur replied. "It's a large log which has symbolic significance because the tree is cut down, and is used to light and warm the house throughout the day. Once we have completed cutting it, we will drag it back to the chateau and place it in the large fireplace in our living room. Then, on Christmas morning before we open up our gifts, my father will light it, using a piece which was saved from last year's log, and it will burn for the rest of the day." Fleur let out a bit of a giggle before continuing, "The house-elves are generally not very happy with it—it's the one thing they aren't allowed to help with or use magic on."

Harry glanced at Hermione, but was surprised to find that she was not at all upset by the mention of house-elves. Clearly, Fleur had taken her aside at some point and explained to her the reason why they were in service to wizards, a necessity of their continued existence as magical creatures. In fact, the Delacour house-elves were more along the lines of family members than servants, though it was true that they did most of the work to keep the house running. Still, they were well treated and given gifts at Christmas—though not clothes!—and were expected to sleep in good beds, and eat the same food as the family, though even the Delacours, with their close relationship with their elves could not get them to eat at the same table as the family.

Walking alongside his friends, Harry was just about to respond when he staggered forward when something impacted with the back of his head. Disoriented for the moment, Harry raised his hand and was shocked at the feeling of icy coldness, and even more surprised when he pulled his hand away from his head and noted the bits of snow clinging to his fingers, while the rest apparently ran down his back.

Turning, Harry instantly took in the grinning visage of a certain Marauder, who was tossing a freshly made snowball into the air and catching it, all while evilly leering at Harry. Exchanging a glance with Hermione and Fleur, Harry knew there was only one thing to do. Almost as one the three teens stooped to the ground and grasping a handful of snow each in their hands, began pelting the grinning man with snowballs.

"No fair!" Sirius cried as he dodged their missiles, almost unable to speak due to his laughter. "It's three against one!"

"Maybe you should have thought of that first!" Hermione declared as she caught him in the face with a particularly fine shot.

Back and forth the four of them fought as the rest of the party looked on with amusement, and though he continued to protest being outnumbered, Sirius did a fair job of giving as good as he got. The fight broke down, however, when Sirius abruptly changed to his grim form and bounded through the group, jumping and prancing about like a Jack Russell terrier. Harry still managed to get in a couple of good hits, even on a moving target, but it was Hermione's displeasure when Sirius bounded up to her and placed a wet, sloppy doggy kiss on her face which ended the game. A threat to hex one's bits off would tend to quell anyone's exuberance, or so Harry thought.

The impromptu snowball fight brought to a close, the party continued on and a few moments later, they had entered the grove of trees which stood several minutes from the chateau, and began sizing up the trees in the area.

"Now, we need to look for a likely specimen," Jean-Sebastian told them. "A fir tree which has grown to be large enough to provide us with a fire which will last all day, but not large enough that it would take us all to day to cut through it."

The other two men appeared affronted at his word and flexed their muscles, while the women just groaned and rolled their eyes in response to the manly bravado. Harry just grinned—he had no expectation of being able to cut through a tree himself, but acknowledged a keen interest to at least give it his best shot.

They searched around the area for some time and several possibilities were pointed out. The Delacours, who had of course done this before, were the final arbiters of whether or not a tree was acceptable, especially Jean-Sebastian, knowing as he did, the fact that the men would be ultimately responsible for rendering the trunk into its final form.

"How about this one?" Harry asked after several moments of searching. The tree was not huge, but it easily towered over the party, and if Harry was any judge of such things—which he knew he was not—it was straight and thick and seemed like it was likely to burn for some time, without overwhelming the Delacours' admittedly large fireplace.

Jean-Sebastian moved toward Harry, inspecting the tree which he had pointed out. And after a long moment, he turned and smiled at Harry, saying, "An excellent choice, Harry. I think this one will do quite well."

Calling to the others, Jean-Sebastian dropped a sack he had carried to the ground and rummaging inside it, he produced several long axes which appeared heavy and incredibly sharp. When the group had all gathered, Jean-Sebastian began handing out the axes, while explaining what was about to happen next.

"I hope you have all kept in shape, because what we are about to do next will be done largely by whatever strength we possess. However, as the tree is large and none of us are lumberjacks," Jean-Sebastian smirked at Sirius who was once again striking a manly pose, "I will use a special axe to cut down the tree."

As he pulled out a carefully stored axe from his bag, Jean-Sebastian continued speaking. "As I said, _most_ of what we will do today will be accomplished by our own hard work. However, over the years we have allowed a little… help to be introduced to our labors. These axes have been charmed to remain razor sharp, and will even give us a little extra power when we swing it at the tree."

Producing a much larger and lethal looking axe from a leather bag, which had obviously been enchanted to hold it, Jean-Sebastian showed the weapon to the group. It was much larger than the others and carried almost an aura of power to it. This weapon was obviously no ordinary woodsman's axe.

"This axe was enchanted by one of my forebears, more than a century ago. As the family line had dwindled to only himself and his children, the traditional cutting of the Yule log had become very difficult, as his children were all still very young. He conceived the idea of this axe to make his job easier until his sons could join him.

"Now I will warn you," he continued, looking sternly over those gathered, "this is a very dangerous weapon and is not to be used by anyone who does not know how to use it. I will use it to cut down the tree, and then it will be put away until it is needed again next year. It will cut through the trunk in one swing, so I suggest you all get far enough away from the tree that it doesn't fall on you."

The three Delacour ladies immediately began to retreat, clearly understanding what was about to occur, while the others followed reluctantly.

"Is that for real?" William asked, wonder coloring his voice.

"I can see the power emanating from it," Hermione replied, while Fleur chimed in, "You'll see!" in a sing-song voice.

Immensely curious as to what was happening, Harry peered at Jean-Sebastian as he prepared the tool for use. He took the weapon and holding it very carefully, pointed it toward the base of the tree. Then again in a very slow motion swung the haft of the axe back before driving it forward. As the axe approached the trunk of the tree, Jean-Sebastian spoke a single word—presumably an activation word or some sort of incantation—which caused the tool to leap forward and cleave through the tree as though the trunk of the large plant was no more substantial than water. The tree shuddered for a moment almost as though it was not aware that there was a problem at its base, before it began to teeter gracefully, and gathering momentum, it crashed to the earth in the opposite direction from where they were standing.

Harry immediately began to applaud with the others as they approached the now fallen tree, where Jean-Sebastian was leaning on the axe, like he was a woodsman, and smirking at everyone else.

"That's not an axe," William drawled, holding out the axe he held in his hand. "_That's an axe!_" he completed the line, gesturing at the axe on which Jean-Sebastian was still leaning.

Hermione and Elizabeth rolled their eyes while Elizabeth smacked her husband on the back of the head, but the rest of the group merely looked on in confusion.

"Don't mind daddy," Hermione said. "He's just paraphrasing one of his favorite movies from the eighties."

"I'll show it to you when you come to our house," William said with a laugh, clearly unconcerned by his wife and daughter's reactions. "It's a comedy classic."

Smiling, Harry nodded his agreement, and turned back to Jean-Sebastian, who was now stowing the special axe back in its protective case. "That's some axe, Jean-Sebastian."

"That it is," his guardian replied with a chuckle. "But it's very dangerous if not used correctly."

"With all the power it generated, I would have thought it would have spun out of your hands."

"It's charmed to stop and not give the user a jolt," said Jean-Sebastian as he finished his task. "And the head of the axe actually creates a field of magical energy, not unlike a standard cutting charm, though obviously much more powerful. It's the energy which actually cuts through the wood, not the blade.

"But now that we have a tree," he continued hefting an axe much like the ones the others now held, "shall we cut it down to size?"

They fell to their task with a vigor, beginning by chopping off the branches extending from the trunk, and levitating them to the side in a neat pile. Once this was completed, Jean-Sebastian measured out a certain length from the base of the trunk, and they began cutting it down in earnest, each of them—besides Gabrielle, who was clearly annoyed that she was deemed to young—taking a turn chopping at the massive tree. And though the axes were charmed, it was still a lot of work to whittle their way through the tree. But no one complained and a good time was had by all, especially the men who all tried to show their huge muscles to the assembled ladies in good fun.

Once the Yule log had been separated from the rest of the tree, they attached ropes to it and began to drag it back in the direction of the chateau. "The house-elves will render the rest of the wood into usable sized pieces for the fireplace, though these pieces won't get used until they are properly dried out," Jean-Sebastian supplied as they worked their way back toward the castle.

It was some time later when the log had been situated in the fireplace, ready for the following morning. The rest of the evening was spent singing Christmas carols and reading the Christmas story from the Bible, while reveling in the company and the abundance of food and drink. Before they went to bed, sabot were placed carefully by the fireplace—a Christmas tradition in France, Fleur supplied, much like stockings hung by the fire in other countries—before they retired for the evening. It is perhaps not surprising that Harry, though he was excited for the following day, slept almost immediately, tired as he was from the day's exertions.

* * *

The next morning, Harry was awoken early by a small ball of energy who dashed into his room and jumped on his bed.

"Harry! Harry! Le Père Noël est venu!"

Bolting upright in surprise, Harry took in the grinning young girl and was immediately infected by her sense of excitement, though he did not completely understand what she said. It was not difficult, however, to understand her meaning.

"Merry Christmas, Gabrielle!" he exclaimed, sweeping her up in a hug, which was returned with interest by the young girl.

"Oui! Joyeux Noël, Harry!"

Jumping from his bed, Harry pulled on a robe and, grasping Gabrielle's hand, he allowed her to pull him from the room. The others had begun to gather in the hallway, no doubt due to the little girl's exuberance in waking the entire house. Indulgent smiles met that exuberance, and embraces and wishes of "Merry Christmas" were passed between the celebrants before they made their way toward the living room.

It appeared that Father Christmas had indeed made an appearance as there were now presents hanging from the tree, and the sabot which had been so carefully placed in front of the tree were filled to overflowing with fruit, nuts and all kinds of sweets, making Harry's mouth water at the sight of all the bounty set before them. Gabrielle instantly set about dividing the sabot between herself, Hermione, Fleur and Harry, being the youngest present. Fleur smiled indulgently at her sister, though she laughingly accepted her share and popped a few of the succulent nuts in her mouth.

As Jean-Sebastian had said the previous day, the first order of business was to light the Yule log in the fire. During the night, a pile of smaller pieces of wood, complete with a generous supply of kindling had been placed around the massive log, and all that was required was for Jean-Sebastian to produce a set of matches—he laughingly informed them that they _did not_ use magic to light the Yule log when asked—and set about lighting the fire. Soon, the fire had caught and the smaller logs were burning merrily. And though the Yule log took much longer for the fire to take hold, it was soon spitting and hissing as green wood was wont to do when used in a fire.

The day that followed was one of the best of Harry's life, filled with laughter and contentment, and a generous supply of gifts from the Delacours, his friends, and most especially, Sirius. The Marauder had laughingly told him that since he had missed so many Christmases, that the pile of presents he had delivered was only to make up for those he had missed. In the brightly wrapped paper were many useful things—a wand holster sized to fit Harry's wrist and charmed to enlarge as Harry grew, sets of clothes, Wizarding robes, and even a few with the Potter crest on them, an album full of photos of his parents and the Marauders from their school days, and even a set of prank items, specifically designed from the notes Sirius had kept from his time as a Marauder. Fred and George would be absolutely over the moon if they ever got a glimpse of the bounty Sirius had given him.

There were other gifts as well: an extensive set of fantasy fiction books—the Narnia set, the works of J. R. R. Tolkien, as well as some other less-known works—from Hermione, a beautiful jacket made from dragon hide from Fleur, and the complete set of James Bond movies from the Grangers, a present which had undoubtedly stemmed from a conversation Harry had had with William about various movie heroes and villains. William had been appalled that Harry knew next to nothing about such a venerable British institution as 007, and was determined to educate him in the subject. And added to that were candies and nuts, trinkets, books, clothes, and numerous other items. For a boy who had received virtually no Christmas gifts throughout his formative years, it was very heady stuff.

For himself, Harry had given Fleur and Hermione matching gold lockets, complete with a photo of the three of them enclosed within, a set of golf balls and other golfing accessories for William, and for his wife, a day at a well known French spa. Not really knowing what Elizabeth liked, it seemed as though it was a good bet, and a success, if Elizabeth's happy exclamation and thanks to Harry was any indication. And though he was not really certain that it was necessary, considering her incredible beauty, Harry had provided the same present to Apolline, which quickly had the two women planning their outing together. To Gabrielle he had provided a selection of sweets and Muggle toys.

When most of the gifts had been distributed, Jean-Sebastian called Harry's attention to the one gift which had not been given.

"Though you might not be aware, it is traditional for a wizard's family to give a young man a pocket watch when they come of age."

When Harry thought to interrupt, Jean-Sebastian chuckled and continued. "Yes, I know that you are still a year and a half away from turning seventeen. I spoke with Mr. Weasley and he requested the honor of allowing them to gift you with your pocket watch, and as your friend Ron and his family have been good to you, I agreed. I believe that they have something special planned for your seventeenth birthday. As a result, we decided to do something similar, to honor this tradition in a way of our own."

Thus said, Jean-Sebastian handed Harry a small box that, when opened, revealed a handsome wristwatch. Harry, who had ruined his own watch the previous year in the second task of the tournament, was thrilled with the thoughtful gift. He pulled it from the box reverently, noting the simple yet stylish workmanship of the face, and the strong, yet supple definition of the band. It was far finer than any watch Harry had ever owned.

"Thank you, Jean-Sebastian," was Harry's emotional words. "I appreciate all your family has done for me."

Jean-Sebastian just waved him off. "I think _you_ have done much for _my_ family, Harry, and I couldn't imagine someone better to entrust my precious daughter.

"Now," he continued, "before we continue with our day, there is one other tradition I wish to observe." He stopped to consider Harry and the entire company for several moments before he once again spoke. "It has been traditional for many years, especially in your own home country, for neighbors and close acquaintances to exchange vows for Christmas and the New Year. I wish to do this, Harry, and let you know that whatever may come, the Delacour family will stand with the Potter family."

Choked up, Harry thanked him, which prompted a deluge of others pledging their support: the ever-faithful and supportive Hermione; his beautiful and talented betrothed; Apolline, Fleur's mother and ethereally beautiful herself; and the irrepressible prankster Sirius. Even the Grangers, who did not, perhaps, completely understand exactly what was happening, immediately pledged their support as well.

"And I pledge to support all of you like you support me," said Harry, barely managing to respond through the emotions which washed through him.

"Shall we make a magical oath?" asked Jean-Sebastian.

"I really don't think that's necessary," Harry stated firmly. "I have every confidence in all of us," he gestured to the whole group, "keeping our vows without magical assistance. I think the bonds of love and affection are much more powerful than even the strongest of magic."

"Well said, Harry," responded Jean-Sebastian with a broad smile. "Well said indeed."

The rest of the day was spent in love and laughter, not to mention a copious amount of incredible food from the Delacour kitchens. The feast was notable in that it closely resembled a traditional English Christmas dinner, though the final treat was a chocolate Yule log cake, or a Bûche de Noël, as he was informed it was known as in French.

Quite simply, it was the best Christmas, and one of the best days of Harry's life.

* * *

_Updated 07/06/2013 _


	32. Chapter 31 – Society's Expectations

**Chapter 31 – Society's Expectations**

The next week was spent in the company of good friends and good company, and for a moment the inhabitants of Chateau Delacour were able to forget about what awaited them back in England when they returned. Though things for the most part were quiet, they all knew the specter of Voldemort still hung over them, and no one could predict when the next blow would be struck. In France, however, such concerns were distant and for the moment, nothing was more important than spending time with family and enjoying their time away from the reality of the world.

All such things must end, however, and on the second-to-last day of the year, the entire party packed up their belongings and made their way back through the Floo and to the ambassador's manor. The Grangers immediately returned to their home, amid thanks for a wonderful holiday, and invitations by the Delacours to join them at any time. Attention then turned to the New Year's ball which was to be held the following evening.

After the day spent in preparation, Fleur found herself sitting in front of her vanity, studying her appearance in the mirror. Overall, she was pleased with what she saw; she was dressed in a simple evening gown of a darker shade of blue than she had worn at the Yule Ball, and she had to admit that blue certainly did suit her. Her hair was piled on the top of her head in an elaborate mass of braids and curls, and she felt the effect was quite becoming of her.

If she were to acknowledge the truth, Fleur knew that she was not anticipating this evening in the slightest. She had enjoyed the Yule Ball, especially the fact that she had been in Harry's company, and though she generally liked dancing, she was certain this evening would be not only tedious but also have a completely different atmosphere. It would undoubtedly subject them all to the censure of the bigots who permeated British Wizarding society; oh she was certain there would be those who were welcoming and kind—in fact, most of them would undoubtedly be so—but she knew that her heritage would make her a target for the innuendo and veiled insults of those to whom blood purity mattered, and she was not looking forward to it.

Sighing, Fleur took one last look in her mirror before rising and gathering her wrap. It would not be _that bad_ she told herself. It was, unfortunately, a simple fact that she expected the few bad experiences to leave a sour taste in her mouth, overshadowing the good experiences, even though the latter would undoubtedly be much more plentiful.

But she had to remember that she would be with Harry; that would make the whole event worth it.

A knock sounded and a moment later Hermione's head poked around the corner of the door. "Fleur, are you ready yet?"

"As ready as I will ever be," was Fleur's rueful reply, accompanied by another sigh.

Hermione smirked. "It sounds like someone isn't looking forward to a night spent in the arms of her betrothed."

"If it was just Harry and me, I would be quite happy. It is the rest of it that I'm not looking forward to."

"I know what you mean." Hermione sat on the edge of the bed and Fleur sat by her side after a moment. "To most of these people, I'm just an uppity Mudblood who doesn't know her place. To those people, I shouldn't be anywhere near the Boy-Who-Lived."

"At least you are 'human'," Fleur said with a snort, emphasizing the last words by flexing her fingers. "English society is not the most welcoming or tolerant, as you are well aware."

"Do you really think Malfoy considers me to be human?" Hermione asked with mock severity. "Perish the thought!"

Fleur had to laugh at Hermione's jest—it was the truth after all. "Listen to us," she responded with a grin. "It will not be that bad—a lot of our friends will be there, and not everyone is a bigot."

"I know," replied Hermione. "It's just… I think I could have done without this for a while. But you invited me, so I couldn't exactly say no."

"I guess we'll just have to look out for one another, won't we?"

Hermione smiled at Fleur's offer and put an arm around the other witch. Fleur was relieved to have such a good female friend as such confidantes had been in short supply in her life. She was certain Hermione felt the same way.

"That sounds great, Fleur. But for tonight, anyway, I think I'll have to look after myself and stick to some of our other friends."

At Fleur's questioning gaze, Hermione turned away slightly and began to toy with one of the cuffs of her gown. "This is your night, Fleur—yours and Harry's," Hermione said, her voice quiet and reflective. "You have been great in including me in everything, but this is _your_ introduction to society and I feel like I've been in the way a little lately."

"No, Hermione—"

"I know you don't feel that way," interrupted Hermione, "but _I do_. You will both be meeting a lot of people tonight and I doubt you will have a lot of time on your hands. I think I'll stick with some of our other friends for the evening. Give you and Harry some space, you know?"

"You have not been in the way," Fleur stated firmly. She had certainly never considered Hermione to be an intruder and wished disabuse her of any hint of such feelings. "I have enjoyed our friendship and the support you have helped give me with the transition to life at Hogwarts.

"Besides, I have tried not to push you, but you know that I would love to have you as a sister. You have not been in the way. If you had been more certain of your feelings and desires, this could have been an introduction to society for _all three of us_."

"No, it couldn't." Hermione's voice was firm and her face was set in an expression of certainty. "There are a number of reasons why this should be the two of you being introduced. I may not have made my decision yet, but even if I had, I would not have allowed it to be announced yet. This is about the alliance between the Potters and the Delacours—you don't need me mucking up things and making them more difficult."

A knock once again sounded at Fleur's door. Hermione rose to answer it but before she did, she turned back to Fleur. "This is the best way, Fleur. I appreciate your offer and your patience, and I promise you that I will have an answer for you—and Harry—as soon as I can. In the meantime, I want you to enjoy Harry's company tonight; for once be selfish and keep him to yourself."

Smiling warmly, Hermione strode to the door and opened it, revealing visibly nervous Harry.

"She's right in here, Harry," Hermione said in greeting and, leaning forward she kissed his cheek. "You're looking rather handsome tonight I must say. In any case, I'll see you both later in the ballroom."

Harry watched her as she strode from the room, his expression unreadable, though Fleur could tell that his earlier nervousness had given way to something else. For a brief moment a stab of… well, she couldn't quite identify exactly _what_ she felt. Regret or wistfulness perhaps—though Fleur was convinced that offering a part of Harry to Hermione was the right thing to do, she could not help but wish that he was hers and hers alone.

Shaking her head, Fleur rose to greet Harry, determined not to indulge in such thoughts again. What was done was done and the situation could not be altered. At least Harry had the good taste and judgment to be in love with such a good person as Hermione—not for the first time Fleur was reflected that she was not certain what she would have done if had had feelings for someone like… like… _Parkinson_ for example.

The mere thought of such a thing had Fleur turning and stifling a giggle into her hand. As if Harry would have the bad taste to fall for someone like _that_ pig!

While she was thus occupied, Harry entered the room and closed the door, while turning to face her. Fleur was forced to admit that regardless of the fact that he was in excess of two years younger than she and that some would wonder what she saw in a boy separated by such an age difference, she was rapidly coming to the opinion that he was perfect for her. He was soft-spoken, yet not afraid to speak up when needed; he was confident, yet anything but arrogant; he was rich and famous, yet he was humble and modest. And it did not hurt that the past six months had seen a growth spurt which had given him enough height that she now had to look up at him. And as icing on the cake, his glorious green eyes were such that any girl would fall for him instantly. Yes, for all that she was a Veela and gifted with magical beauty, Harry's looks were such that she did not feel like he was the one getting the best of the deal from a purely superficial point of view—not in the slightest. Add in his personality and bearing, and the deal was sealed for Fleur. And it was not as though their age difference would matter in even five years. Fleur was very much looking forward to their coming life together—if only they could triumph over the obstacles fate had placed in their path.

"Hi Fleur," Harry said somewhat abashedly as he advanced into the room. His manner instantly suggested to Fleur that he had something in mind other than simply greeting her or escorting her to the ball. What it was she had no idea, but Harry had not been this reticent in her company for some time now. In fact, she was highly gratified at how comfortable they had become with one another, a progression which was another reason among many why she had such hopes for their future.

"Harry," she greeted him with a smile and a kiss on his cheek. She grasped his hand and pulled him to the bed, sitting by his side in the same manner she had just sat with Hermione. She kept his hand enclosed within her own as she smiled at him and said, "Hermione and I have spoken about how we are not looking forward to tonight; is this the time where you now tell me the same thing?"

Harry appeared surprised at her teasing before he regarded her with a bit of a devilish expression of his own. "So the ladies are actually not looking forward to a night of dancing?" he asked with an affected incredulousness. "Shouldn't we commemorate this moment or something? Isn't this sort of thing almost unheard of?"

Slapping him lightly on the shoulder, Fleur responded playfully, "Only when our dates are nothing more than silly prats."

"I'll have you know that I am not a prat," Harry said with a sniff. "I am a handsome, debonair, and altogether likeable bloke."

They both laughed together at Harry's conceit, after which Harry sobered immediately and looked at Fleur with some concern. "Seriously, I thought you ladies lived for this type of thing."

"I _do_ enjoy dancing, if I'm with the right man." She smiled at him, trying to communicate the fact that he was very much the right man, and his answering grin told her that he had received the message loud and clear. "But I must admit to a little anxiety. This isn't like the Yule Ball—it is much more serious and the atmosphere will be completely different. It is a high society event, and those can be very dull. But even more, there will be those in attendance tonight who will not exactly be welcoming of me. That's not even mentioning those who will hate me for snagging the golden boy."

"They're not worth our time if they can't see what a wonderful person you are," said Harry rather emphatically. "Besides, if anyone gets unruly, we can just have Matty toss them out on their ear."

The mental image of a two-and-a-half foot house-elf throwing a six foot man out on his ear caused Fleur to giggle and she playfully swatted at Harry. They continued to chuckle for several moments before Harry suddenly became serious once again.

"Fleur, there was something I wanted to talk to you about," he began hesitantly.

"Of course, Harry," she replied.

"Well, I just wanted to…" Harry paused for a moment as though considering what to say, before he almost visibly squared his shoulders. "Actually, I wanted to tell you how thankful I am that you and your family have taken me into your home."

"Oh Harry," Fleur responded with an affectionate hug. "It's nothing. We are betrothed now—we want you to understand that you are family now."

"I do understand that," Harry insisted, "but it really has struck me in the last little while how much your family is risking by openly supporting me. Your father did not have to agree to this betrothal, and I'm very aware of how much danger it has put you all in. I wanted you to know that I understand and I'm very grateful."

Fleur was touched by his shy statement of appreciation. "I do not think we could have done anything else," she told him, laying her head upon his shoulder. "Papa has told me that he felt that Voldemort would not stop at Britain if he managed to conquer your country. As much as he respects and likes you, and feels like you will take care of me, this is also about defending our interests as well. This could be a very powerful alliance, Harry—one of the few between families of England and France. Sure there are fringe benefits for you and me," they shared a smile at her words, "but it is also largely political."

"And that's very foresighted of your father to think of all that," Harry responded. "But I'm still grateful.

"I wanted to do something to show my appreciation," Harry continued after a moment, "but I thought I would like to make a gesture to you specifically."

"That's not necessary—" Fleur's words were stilled when Harry put his fingers to her mouth, stopping her protests in mid-sentence. He turned so that he was facing her a little more directly, and took a deep breath before beginning to speak.

"Fleur, I know you don't do what you do in order to be rewarded, but that doesn't make me any less thankful. If anything, it makes me more. I thought that the best way to show my appreciation would be to present you with a gift which carries all of my esteem for you. I know that I gave you and Hermione the exact same gifts at Christmas, but I did that knowing I also wanted to give you something all your own."

From within his jacket, Harry produced a satin box which glittered in the light of the room. Fleur's breath caught in her throat and she looked up at Harry with wonder, searching his eyes for some indication of what he was thinking.

"I've had this idea for some time now, but it has only been in the last two days that the idea became a plan. I know that we are formally and magically betrothed, but as of yet you do not wear any visible indication of our status, and I wanted to change that. I'm not formally proposing to you now—that will come later." He grinned impishly at her, prompting her returning smile. "Yesterday I visited my family vaults—with Sirius along I was able to access them, though I was restricted in what I can do until I come of age. We were able to argue with the goblins that I should be allowed to remove this box based on my status as your betrothed. Sirius remembered it from when he was friends with my father, and recommended it when I told him what I wanted to do."

Lifting the box between them and pointing it toward her, Harry opened it and showed Fleur the simple, yet beautiful ring which lay within. It was a small ring of white gold, and contained three tiny diamonds inset into the straight band on either side of the centerpiece. In the center were two hearts, a smaller one set to the side and slightly over the lower right edge of the larger, both with a gemstone set within the center of the hearts—the larger heart contained a ruby, while the smaller contained a sapphire, clearly a representation of their respective birth months. The ring was tasteful and elegant, without being too showy and ostentatious. In other words, it was perfect—just like Harry himself.

"Oh, Harry, it's beautiful," Fleur breathed, reaching out to touch the ring with one trembling finger.

"It was my mother's," Harry said by way of explanation. "Apparently my father bought it for her when he was finally able to get her to date him." Stopping, Harry smirked. "Sirius told me that she kind of considered him to be a bit of a git when they were younger. He and his friends were pranksters and she thought he was arrogant and frivolous, but apparently he changed during his sixth and seventh years.

"He gave her this ring when they had been dating for a while, signaling his intention to marry her. I had the goblins remove their birth stones and replace them with ours. I would like you to wear this if you would, as a symbol of my esteem and a promise that I will give you an actual engagement ring once I finish school."

Filled with emotion, Fleur gave Harry a tremulous smile. "I would be honored to wear it. Thank you, Harry."

"No. Thank you," Harry murmured as he removed the ring from the box and, setting it aside, slipped the ring onto her left ring finger which she held out to him. The ring shuddered for a moment as the sizing charm kicked in, before settling on her finger.

Fleur held out her hand admiring the ring and ecstatic at the thoughtfulness her betrothed had exhibited. He was changing, she thought—from the shy and uncertain boy he had been when she had first met him to the confident and powerful young man who was now growing into his reputation. He was no longer the "little boy" she had thought him to be the night his name had unexpectedly come out of the goblet, and indeed, had never been one, given what she knew of him now. He was hers and there was no way she was going to let go of him.

Shyly, she glanced up at him through her eyelashes and, giving him a coy smile, said, "Is it not customary for the young man to kiss the young lady to whom he has just given a promise ring?"

"Indubitably," Harry said with a smile before leaning in and brushing her lips with his own.

The next moments were spent in a most pleasurable fashion and though Fleur knew that some boys would have been attempting to inhale her tonsils by now, Harry's kiss was gentle and chaste—perhaps even more so than she would have wished for. After all, he had just given her a beautiful gift which bespoke his growing regard—if this was not a time for them to indulge in a slightly more intimate response, then she did not know what was.

At length, Harry pulled away from her, a regretful smile on his face. "I guess we had better go down—I told your father we wouldn't be late."

Fleur eyed him suspiciously. "Does my father know about this?"

"He was there when I asked Sirius about it before we left France," Harry admitted. "Sirius helped me get into the vault, but your father knew what we were going to be doing. He hasn't seen the ring, though."

"In that case he can wait," said Fleur while pulling Harry toward her yet again. "I'm sure he would expect us to celebrate such an auspicious occasion."

Though he had suggested they head down to the ballroom, Harry made no complaint about continuing their private celebration. In fact, it was clear from his enthusiastic response that he was enjoying their interlude as much as she was herself.

* * *

About fifteen minutes later, the young couple left Fleur's rooms and descended the stairs to the main level of the manor. In no hurry, they walked slowly, reveling in their closeness and deepening relationship. An observer unknown to them would have seen them and assumed them to be exactly what they were—a young couple in the middle of forming a relationship of love and respect. It was significant to Harry's mind, as their relationship had grown so slowly that such a thing could not have been said only a few short weeks ago.

As he walked along the hall with Fleur holding on to his arm, Harry reflected on the past half hour with a certain amount of relief—Jean-Sebastian had told him that Fleur would love the ring, regardless of the fact that he had not, in fact, seen it. Still, Harry had worried; who would not? It was not every day that one gave a special girl a promise ring.

As they approached the ballroom, they noted the group gathered there and the speculative looks which were being directed at them, even by those who had not known of Harry's intentions for the evening. Harry ignored them as best he could, though he was certain that the scrutiny had elicited a light blush at the very least. It was not helped at all when Sirius, no doubt considering it his duty as a Marauder, began teasing him.

"It certainly was a good thing that you told them to be here half an hour ahead of the actual time when guests will start arriving," he drawled to Jean-Sebastian. "One would think they did not know how to tell time."

"Indeed," Jean-Sebastian responded. "Since Harry left to get Fleur twenty minutes ago, I am rather curious as to what they were doing all this time."

"Oh and Harry," Sirius said, his eyes twinkling with barely suppressed mirth, "I'm not sure that lipstick is your color. You really should take better care to choose the proper highlights."

The grinning Marauder pulled a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped the corner of Harry's mouth, showing him a small stain of rose gloss. Blushing, Harry attempted to direct a stern glare at the two of them, which was clearly a failure, as their teasing grins did not lessen in the slightest. Jean-Sebastian actually guffawed in response to Sirius's teasing, regardless of the fact that Harry had just been essentially caught kissing his eldest daughter.

"Do not tease Harry, you two," said Apolline as she approached the couple. "Honestly, sometimes I think you are spending too much time with Mr. Black. You are becoming as much of a prankster as he is!"

She shook her head as the two men merely smirked at one another. Approaching Harry and Fleur, she kissed Harry on the cheek and embraced her daughter warmly, before setting about adjusting Harry's robes to her satisfaction. For a brief moment, Harry wondered what it was about women which compelled them to play with and rearrange a man's clothes. "The guests will be arriving soon—we should take our places."

Stepping back, Apolline was about to turn away when her attention was caught by the ring on Fleur's hand and with a little gasp, she reached out and took her hand. "My goodness!" she exclaimed, taking Fleur's hand and inspecting the ring. "That is very beautiful, Fleur. I assume it was a gift from your young man?"

"Yes, Maman," Fleur answered with a complacent smile. "Harry gave it to me just before we came down."

Hermione joined them and stood with Apolline, exclaiming over the ring. Harry, though he felt slightly embarrassed at the attention it was receiving, nevertheless was feeling rather gratified that Apolline and Hermione approved of it.

"It's a promise ring," Harry was compelled to say. "I know we are betrothed, but I thought Fleur should have a visible indication of my esteem, and a promise that when we are ready I will propose and up the ante with an engagement ring."

"Smooth, Potter," Hermione teased. "There may just be some hope for you yet."

"I certainly hope so," Harry responded with a grin.

"Very well done," Jean-Sebastian's words interrupted his introspection. The father of his betrothed had approached and inspected the ring himself before turning his approving smile on Harry. "Clearly it was a good choice to agree to this betrothal. I can see that Fleur will be well taken care of."

"You can depend upon it, J.S." Harry responded. "And I think I am the one who needs to thank you—I understand the sacrifice and danger you have placed your family in to support me."

"Do not mention it, Harry," Jean-Sebastian responded. "It was the right thing to do. Now, let us show these countrymen of yours that we are united and allied, shall we?"

"And watch them squirm," Sirius said with an evil cackle.

* * *

The guests began arriving soon after Harry and Fleur had joined the family in forming a line to greet the arriving guests. Or most of them joined the line—Hermione firmly declared that she was a guest and not part of the family, so she held back and did not participate in the official greetings, though many of those in attendance did have some words for her as they moved down the line. The list of guests was endless—Harry was certain that there were several hundred people in attendance. And though children were normally not to be included in such gatherings, since Harry himself was only fifteen, Jean-Sebastian had though it prudent to invite the younger generation as well. _They_ would be the ones Harry would be dealing with in the future.

As the guests began to trickle in, Harry had an impression of just how dull this evening would be. The first guest to enter—likely in an effort to make himself appear important—was the Minister for Magic himself, along with his wife, and though the man was certainly not well thought of by anyone in residence at the manor, he conducted himself as though he was a benevolent father of them all.

"Harry, my boy," he said with aplomb as he approached them. "So good to see you looking so well with your betrothed. I understand you spent the past several days with your betrothed's family in France. I hope your holiday was happy and relaxing?"

"Yes sir," Harry replied, just managing to keep his voice even. "We had a wonderful Christmas."

"Very good, indeed. You should always take the time away from life to enjoy yourself."

"Yes sir," Harry repeated, not really having much he wanted to say to the man—at least nothing which could be repeated in polite company. Luckily, Fudge either took the hint or did not care to further any conversation with Harry, and moved down the line with his wife. His exchange with Jean-Sebastian was everything polite, though Harry could detect the frosty undercurrents. It was clear there was no love lost between the two men.

Ignoring the politician, Harry turned toward the next set of guests to be introduced, and greeted them with politeness. Thus began an almost never ending succession of Ministry employees, old families and others, and in short order, Harry was wondering how he would ever remember all the names, not to mention associating those names to the faces.

"Don't worry about it, Harry," Fleur whispered to him during one brief lull. "You don't need to remember everyone's name right now—it will come."

Harry smiled gratefully at her before turning to greet the next guests, who turned out to be the Greengrass family. Daphne had come, along with her sister and parents, and Harry had to admit it was not difficult to see why boys around her exclaimed over her good looks. Had Harry not already had the most beautiful girl he had ever seen by his side, he would have had to admit that he would have been interested in Daphne. It was also clear to see where she had received her looks—if Mrs. Greengrass was any indication, Daphne would be even more beautiful when she achieved her full maturity. By contrast, Mr. Greengrass was short, standing only an inch or two taller than his wife, but he was also slender and appeared to be athletic. Astoria hung back a little bashfully, though she did return Harry's smile and greeting.

"Harry," Daphne said as she approached, "I'd like you to meet my parents, David and Angelique. Mum, dad, this is Harry Potter."

"We finally get to meet the famous Harry Potter," Angelique spoke, betraying a hint of a French accent. "So good to meet you. Both Daphne and Astoria have had much to say about you."

"All good, I hope?" Harry replied with a raised eyebrow at his new friend.

"I certainly wouldn't tell _you_ if it wasn't," Daphne rejoined with a mysterious smile. "I _am_ a Slytherin, after all."

"It's good to see you all here," Harry responded, and he grasped the ladies' hands and kissed them.

"He certainly appears to be charmer, dear," Angelique said as an aside to Daphne as Mr. Greengrass moved forward to shake Harry's hand.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, young man," said David. "I appreciate your allowing my daughters to attend your club. They tell me they are learning much from you."

"They are very welcome," Harry responded with a nod at the girls. "They've fit in very well and we are happy to have them."

"Perhaps there are other things we may have in common," David continued as they began moving down the line. "We will have to arrange a meeting at some point to discuss mutual interests."

Jean-Sebastian greeted David at that moment and Harry was sure that Mr. Greengrass had been speaking of more than just a friendly get together. A glance at Daphne confirmed this as she motioned to him that they would speak of it later. She then, accompanied by her sister, moved to say hello to Hermione, after which the three girls left the hallway and entered the ballroom.

Unfortunately, Harry was not given any further time to consider the matter, as at that moment, a most unwelcome sight met his eyes. There, standing in the hallway, striding forward as though they owned the place, was the Malfoy family.

If Draco was more like a garden snake than a cobra—toothless and harmless—the same could not be said about his sire. Lucius Malfoy was a cunning predator, dangerous and vicious, and it was his craftiness made him such a threat. He was certainly not saddled with the distinctive lack of tact and cunning that Draco exhibited, and Harry was thankful that Draco was not more like his father—if he had been, the previous four years of schooling would have been much more dangerous and miserable.

Oddly enough, Draco held back while his father and mother—a handsome woman with blond hair mixed with darker highlights—stepped forward to greet him. Instead, Draco glared stonily at Harry and Fleur, while glancing around with clear distaste at his surroundings. Doubtless, he would not have come had he had any other choice.

"Mr. Potter," Lucius's voice rang out over the assembled dignitaries, and Harry thought the noise in the area lessened, as those in attendance turned their attention, clearly eager to see what would transpire between them. "I see you have moved up in the world, though perhaps your taste is _not_ of the highest class. Still, my wife and I, and of course our son," he gestured to where Draco was still hanging back, "would like to congratulate you on your engagement to… the lovely Miss Delacour."

Harry's hackles were immediately raised by the rank insincerity in the man's voice and his contemptuous glances, not only at Fleur, but also at the others of her family. In response, Sirius was gazing at the man so intently, that he was almost blazing holes through Malfoy's head.

_"Two can play at that game,"_ Harry thought, as he gave the Pureblood a dismissive glance.

"Thank you for your compliments," he responded in as disinterested a tone as he could manage. "I do indeed consider myself lucky to have the most beautiful woman I have ever met as my betrothed.

"By the way," he continued as he turned his attention to Draco, "the Parkinsons arrived earlier, and I believe Pansy is in the ballroom waiting impatiently for your arrival. She was looking… well, as she usually does, I suppose."

Draco said nothing in response, merely contenting himself with a contemptuous glance at Fleur before he studiously turned his head away toward the ballroom. Lucius, however, smiled faintly, saying, "Charming."

"And how are you, Mr. Malfoy? I trust you have been well since the last time we met?"

A raised eyebrow met Harry's jibe. Lucius clearly understood the reference—the last time Harry had been in the presence of this man was the night of the Triwizard tournament's third task. Of course, it had also been the night he had witnessed Voldemort's return.

"Very well, thank you," Lucius replied. "It is very gratifying to see you so much more… confident than you were then. Perhaps, though, your guardian should take an interest in curbing your unfortunate tendency toward brashness. It is important in life to pick one's battles, Mr. Potter, and to avoid biting off more than one can chew."

"I'm certain it is," Harry retorted. "I will take your advice under consideration, though I must admit that I'm not sure that a little friendly conversation constitutes 'biting off more than I can chew'. We are old friends now, are we not?"

Apparently this statement garnered a little more attention and generated a little more annoyance than anything Harry had previously said. The man sniffed disdainfully and said, "Draco informed me that he once gave you advice about choosing your companions carefully. Unfortunately, it appears that you have not taken his words to heart, given your present company." He eyed Fleur with some distaste, which was returned in full measure by Harry's betrothed.

"I assure you that I am fully capable of choosing those with whom I associate," was Harry's firm response. "I am quite content with the choices I have made in this regard."

"Indeed," the blond Pureblood responded, his voice fairly dripping with contempt. "Hopefully you will not come to regret those choices. For now, I recommend you deal with respect toward your betters. Peace is a fragile thing, Mr. Potter, and you must take care not to upset any balance you have achieved, lest it come back to haunt you."

"Thank you for your advice, Mr. Malfoy," Harry responded, not even bothering to point out that the Potter name was much older and more prestigious than that of an immigrant who was only accepted due to his wealth. _That_ would be far too obvious. Still, another small dig would not be at all amiss. "I prefer to deal with others as equals, Mr. Malfoy; I see no need to remind anyone else of my status as the heir to a long and prestigious line."

"Harry, will you favor me with an introduction?" Jean-Sebastian's voice cut through the tension.

Turning, Harry executed a half bow, motioning toward the Pureblood. "Certainly. Jean-Sebastian Delacour, please allow me to introduce Mr. Lucius Malfoy. Mr. Malfoy is my classmate, Draco Malfoy's father."

Jean-Sebastian bowed to Lucius, a gesture which was returned only slightly by the Malfoy patriarch. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Mr. Delacour," Lucius responded, "your name precedes you. You boast an extensive career in the French magical government and bear a name which is old and respected in our neighboring country."

"Thank you—I have tried to do the best for my country of course. But I am curious; there are some Malfoys in France—a minor house really—in the Bordeaux area. Are you at all related to them?"

Though Harry was not at all familiar with French magical families, he was well aware of the fact that the Malfoy progenitors were French, and he suspected that Jean-Sebastian was well aware of that fact. Clearly he understood the connection and his offhand comment about the fact that they were a minor family was nothing more than an insult, and one which was clearly understood by the Pureblood.

"Indeed you are correct," Lucius responded, "though the link is an old one, and the connection has been completely lost. My ancestors left France centuries ago to come to Britain. We consider ourselves to be completely English, I assure you."

"Of course," Jean-Sebastian replied. "It is always in one's best interest to fully assimilate into one's adopted country."

"It is," Lucius agreed with aplomb. "But perhaps it is also wise to continue to maintain ties with one's roots. In light of that, perhaps we should meet at some point to discuss mutually important and beneficial arrangements?"

"I look forward to it," Jean-Sebastian replied.

"In the meantime, I see that we have held up those wishing to greet you and as such, will take up no more of your time. Come, Narcissa, Draco."

With a nod of his head, Lucius stepped away, followed by the rest of his family. Harry watched them walk away with some disgust—the man was a Death Eater and a killer, and Harry had a distinct desire to arrange payment for the man's crimes, though a meeting with his maker would be equally agreeable. And the smirking Draco would no doubt follow in his father's footsteps with enthusiasm, though the boy did not have enough intelligence to do anything else.

"Why were they invited?" Harry asked in an undertone, turning to Jean-Sebastian as Fleur greeted the next family in line.

"One thing you will learn, Harry, is that it is beneficial to understand your opponents' strengths and weaknesses, and you cannot do that if you are never in their company. There is an old saying in English which says that you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Besides, as personally distasteful as the Malfoys are, they _are_ influential members of society and to snub them would carry consequences."

"Are you going to meet with Malfoy?"

Jean-Sebastian chuckled. "No doubt he wishes a more private forum in which to make his threats should I continue to support you. Yes, I will meet with him if he wishes, though I rather suspect nothing will ever come of it. If I do, I will try to get an indication of what his plans are. Do not worry, Harry, I will be quite safe."

As the next people in line had made their way to him, Harry turned to greet them, while mulling Jean-Sebastian's words in his head. It made a certain amount of sense, he supposed—a brash Gryffindor response was not necessarily the best in all situations, though it certainly had its place. The sorting hat had wanted to place him in Slytherin; perhaps it was time for him to allow his Slytherin side a little more free rein.

* * *

Unfortunately, the evening turned out to be every bit as tedious as Fleur had feared, though there were bright spots as well, particularly the dances Harry shared with his betrothed. There were also moments of tension and veiled comments, though nothing overt. The disparaging remarks directed toward Fleur—and even the occasional overheard comment about Hermione—were cleverly couched in innuendo, and never openly breached good manners.

Throughout it all, Harry had to admit that he at times felt like a prize bull on display. He was required to mingle with the invitees, dance with some of the ladies, exchange a few words and almost rote-like phrases, and in generally appear agreeable and welcoming to all. He generally had no head for remembering all the people to whom he was introduced that evening, but he figured it did not matter too much—familiarity would solve that little problem, and he did not need to worry about it at least until the end of his schooling.

The high part of the evening was, of course, spending time with his betrothed and the others who had also been invited to the ball. In addition to the Greengrasses, Tracy Davis and her parents attended, as did Susan and Amelia Bones, Luna and her father Xenophilius Lovegood, Blaise Zabini and his family—though Blaise was not as openly friendly as Daphne and Tracy were—and a few others from the Defense Club, not to mention Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, along with the most of their children, who hurried in as the entertainment was about to begin. Only Charlie, who was busy working in Romania, was not present for the ball. Mrs. Weasley was noticeably distant, clearly not having gotten over the discussion Harry had had with her before Christmas. At least she was not _unkind_ or dismissive.

Of course, the presence of Harry's friends also necessitated the presence of other, less savory types as well—in addition to the Malfoys and Parkinsons, the Notts, the Flints, and the Bulstrodes were also in attendance, though Malfoy's bookends were conspicuous in their absence. But whereas Harry could normally have expected the Slytherins to cause problems, they were apparently on their best behavior that evening, keeping mostly to themselves in a corner of the room. It was rather interesting behavior, considering the point of the evening's gathering was to introduce Harry and Fleur to society at large, and also to forge alliances and come to a greater understanding of one another. A true Slytherin should have been in his element in such a gathering. Certainly the older crowd was engaged in a fair amount of politicking that evening, not excepting the Slytherin students' parents.

"What is Malfoy up to?" Fleur asked at one point. They had managed to escape from a group of pompous old windbags and had utilized their freedom to make their way to the dance floor for a rare interlude together without any distractions.

"Not sure," Harry responded with a shrug. "Maybe he's turned over a new leaf and finally located an actual Slytherin side."

"That's likely," was Fleur's sarcastic response. "He's not bright enough to have a Slytherin side."

Smirking, Harry twirled her around and they lost sight of the Slytherin group. "I suppose you're right. But let's not talk about the blond git—too much of that is liable to turn my stomach."

Soon their dance ended and they exited the floor to once again immerse themselves in the intricate game. This time, however, they were approached by the Headmaster. Dumbledore smiled at them and greeted them warmly. "How are you enjoying your first taste of society?" he asked them.

Harry and Fleur exchanged a glance. "Well, it is interesting," Harry responded. "Some parts are better than others, though."

Chuckling, Dumbledore replied, "Ah, it is ever thus. I daresay that one must be a political animal to truly enjoy such a gathering. You will become accustomed to them, of course, as you become more experienced. For now, I can see that they could be considered tedious and somewhat frustrating."

"Yes sir," Harry answered, knowing the Headmaster would see through his attempts at obfuscation.

"Harry, I did wish to speak with you," Dumbledore continued. "There are some things I need to explain to you, and I would like to come to the manor the day after tomorrow and do so, if that is acceptable to you."

Frowning, Harry regarded the professor. "I hope it's nothing wrong."

"Nothing I wish you to worry about," Dumbledore replied. "I shall only repeat that there are some things which you need to be aware of. I shall not say more right now however, as we require a private setting."

"I'll be there with Fleur then, sir."

"Ah, no I think not," was the Headmaster's firm reply. He smiled at Fleur, apparently to indicate that his stricture was no censure toward her, before he said, "Although I am certain that Miss Delacour will be told of everything that we discuss, I believe the initial conversation should only include Sirius, Jean-Sebastian, myself and you, Harry."

Harry turned to look at his betrothed, and Fleur only shrugged slightly. "If that's the way you want it sir."

"I believe it is best." Dumbledore's words were firm and would not be questioned. He spoke with them about inconsequential matters before excusing himself a few moments later.

"Now he's got me worried," Harry groused once he was out of earshot. "I would almost prefer that he just showed up and asked to talk to me, rather than making me wait two days for the bad news."

Hugging him affectionately, Fleur led him toward a table on which sat some refreshments. "Don't worry about it, Harry. It sounds like he just wants to explain some things to you. No need to panic."

"I didn't say anything about panicking," Harry rejoined. "Come on. Let's see if we can hang out with the gang for a while."

* * *

The night was getting late and a slow trickle of guests had already begun to depart for their homes, though the group of friends and members of the school's Defense Club were still gathered together, sipping punch and eating refreshments, and occasionally moving to the dance floor with one another. Hermione was happy to be in the company of so many supportive friends and though Malfoy and his crew did not deign to approach them, Hermione still felt the weight of his stony gaze on her and the others from time to time. She really wished the little creep would find someone else to go bother—he was beginning to get on her nerves.

Across the room, she watched as Harry and Fleur moved around the dance floor. Fleur threw her head back and laughed at something Harry said, and he continued to grin impudently at her as they moved from Hermione's sight.

Sighing, she reflected that it truly had been a good idea to distance herself from her two closest friends that evening, though if she was honest with herself, she knew that they had never been far from her thoughts. She enjoyed spending time with them—enjoyed it very much, in fact. But close proximity to them—especially to Harry, a young man for whom she not-so-secretly harbored feelings—was not conducive to deep thought and Hermione felt that she needed to think about the situation and try to come to a decision of what she really wanted.

It did not help that she had almost felt like an intruder lately. Of course her friends had not made her feel that way—in fact, nothing could have been further from the truth. But the fact of the matter was that she had been spending almost every waking moment with them, and not only did that hamper their ability to further their own relationship, but it did not allow Hermione to come to any conclusions herself.

Her feelings were real—she had decided that a long time ago. The problem was whether she should acknowledge them to Harry and to the world. In the Muggle world, when a girl realized that she had feelings for a young man who was already attached, she could either try to show the man how she was a better choice—essentially interfering with his relationship and trying to supplant his current choice—or she could cry a little and try to move on. The fact that Harry and Fleur were her two best friends would have dictated the latter response had this been a normal situation. The problem was that the magical world allowed a third choice, and one which she was not entirely certain she had the courage to take. Not only was she worried about what her parents would say and how it would be perceived in the Muggle world, but she also worried about getting into a relationship with Harry when she felt like she would be overshadowed by the older and more experienced—and more beautiful!—Fleur.

Of course she knew that Fleur would argue that Hermione actually had the advantage, as she had the emotional attachment with Harry due to more than four years of almost constant companionship, but that fact, though it was obviously true, did not reassure Hermione in the slightest. She was being silly to a certain extent—she knew this—but she also felt that they were valid concerns nonetheless. However, despite all this, she felt she was coming closer to a resolution, and that her attraction and feelings for Harry were undoubtedly inducing her to lean toward accepting Fleur's offer. She was still uncertain, however, and it was making her a little irritable. So, she sat relatively quietly while the other members of the table chatted and generally had a good time in one another's company. And though she had danced a few times with some of the boys in attendance, her friends seemed to sense that she did not desire company and, as a result, she was included in the companionship of the group, but she said relatively little the entire evening.

The night was rapidly drawing to a close when she was approached by Daphne, who eyed her with some interest. Hermione attempted to be her ever-cheerful self and she greeted the other girl warmly.

"Hermione," Daphne stated, "you've been quite distant from Harry and Fleur tonight. What's up?"

Hermione attempted a nonchalant shrug. "It's their night tonight. I'm just trying to give them the space to recognize that fact."

"Understandable," Daphne responded. "Though I certainly don't think that they would wish you to stay away."

"No," Hermione agreed, "but I think it's better this way."

Though she did not appear convinced, Daphne allowed the subject to drop. Hermione was certain the girl knew more than she was letting on, but Hermione would not speculate on it—as long as she was discreet Daphne could think whatever she wanted.

"I actually wanted to ask you something," Daphne continued. "My parents are getting ready to leave and I don't think I'll have the chance to speak to Harry before I go. Can you tell him I'd like to speak with him as soon as the new term starts? On the Express would be best if he's okay with it."

"What is it about?"

"Something my father said when I introduced them today. I'd like the opportunity to explain what's going on."

"I'll tell him," Hermione promised. "I don't think it will be a big deal."

"Thanks. I'll see you back on the Express."

Daphne turned and after giving her a brief embrace, collected her sister and walked to the entrance where they were met by their parents. A moment later they had departed, leaving Hermione to wonder what she wanted to speak with Harry about. Maybe she was going to offer to be Harry's second wife, Hermione thought morosely. She was attractive and well connected, and did not have the social mores of the Muggle world holding her back—of course she'd offer, if she thought she had any chance of success. Just about _any_ girl at Hogwarts or otherwise would offer after all.

"Hey Hermione."

Hermione turned and saw Ron approaching her. She smiled at him and returned his greeting and the two friends stood in companionable silence watching the dancers as they moved to the music.

When the dance ended, the band announced the final dance of the evening, and Ron turned to Hermione. "Hey, you want to dance? It's the last dance of the evening."

Still wary of his interest from the months before, Hermione noted that he appeared to be offering as a result of friendship. No hint of his former feelings was displayed and, as such, Hermione agreed and they made their way to the dance floor. They swayed to the music for several moments before Ron broke the silence.

"Harry and Fleur seem to be getting on pretty well."

"I think they're doing more than just well, Ron," Hermione confided. "Did you see the promise ring Harry gave her?"

"Yeah, what's the deal with that?"

"It was given to his mother by his father," Hermione told him. "Harry felt that he should give her something symbolizing their status."

Ron chuckled and shook his head. "That's a good example of why it's better him than me. I would never have thought of doing something like that." With a self-deprecating laugh, Ron stated, "He's definitely the sensitive one—I don't think anyone would say that of me."

"Oh, Ron," Hermione responded playfully, "Harry is Harry and you are you—both of you are great guys, and you both have your strengths and weaknesses."

"He really is a good guy, isn't he?"

"One of the best," Hermione agreed. "The two of you are the best friends a girl could have."

Ron ignored Hermione's compliment and continued to focus on Harry. "He has to be a great bloke to put up with all the crap life has dealt him and come out of it the way he has. I appreciate him more now than I ever did before. In first year he was the Boy-Who-Lived and I was ecstatic that I was lucky enough to be his friend and it's just grown from there. We've had our troubles and I've made my share of mistakes, but I'm really glad to be his friend now. I want you to know that I'll never abandon him again—he's stuck with me from now on."

"I'm glad to hear that," Hermione said, reflecting that Ron's words were thoughtful and sincere, and Hermione was glad that whatever jealousy issues he had harbored in the past for Harry appeared to be just that—in the past. There was no need for Ron to consider himself to be in Harry's shadow—_no one_ was in Harry's shadow unless they put themselves there. He was the type of person who induced everyone around him to stand a little straighter, and to be a little better than before, by the manner in which he helped them to improve themselves, by his quiet confidence, and more importantly, just by the strength of his conviction. It may have sounded fanciful and overly starry-eyed if Hermione had made that claim aloud, but she knew it was the truth. Harry had flourished this year and was now living up to the potential Hermione knew he had always possessed.

They danced on in silence for several minutes before Ron once again spoke up. "I just wanted to say that…" He trailed off as though trying to find the right words to say. "I think that Harry's just about the best friend a bloke could have and I think the world of him. But I also think the world of _you_."

"Thank you Ron, that's very sweet of you." A part of Hermione was worried—it appeared that Ron was gearing himself up for another declaration of his feelings for her. That was why his next words shocked her so much.

"I really think you should go for it."

Completely flabbergasted, Hermione stared back at her friend, considering whether she had heard and understood his inference correctly. Was he _really_ telling her that she should accept Fleur's suggestion? Was this really _Ron?_

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh come on, Hermione," Ron said with some exasperation, but also with a sly grin, "I'm not _completely_ blind, you know. I can see how you feel about him, and I can imagine why you are struggling with it. But I can also see that your feelings for him—and his for you—are strong enough to overcome any of that stuff. And anyone can see that Fleur welcomes your presence. I'm just telling you that I think you should allow yourself this happiness. Don't end up regretting what could have been."

Astonishment was not strong enough a word to describe what Hermione was feeling at that moment, but before she could formulate a response, a movement caught her eye near the entrance to the ballroom. She turned Ron so that she could get a better look at what had attracted her attention and they were close enough to the door to see an Auror—one of the French detail providing security at the manor—enter the room with a wand drawn. Hermione had seen him around the manor before—he was part of the protection detail, and appeared to be very familiar with the family. But he was behaving in a manner she had never seen before; his movements were a little stiff and his face was screwed up in a cruel smile, the likes of which she had never before seen on his face.

Before anyone truly even noticed the man's appearance, he raised his voice and yelled, "Creatures, Mudbloods and blood traitors beware—your day of reckoning is at hand!"

He then raised his wand high in the air, and intoned in a loud voice, "_Morsmordre!_"

Even as a sickly greenish hue began to filter into the ballroom through the windows, the man was already moving. He thrust his wand forward toward the crowd, and cried:

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

* * *

_Updated 07/15/2013  
_


	33. Chapter 32 – A Shot Across the Bow

**Chapter 32 – A Shot Across the Bow**

As the bright green curse erupted from the end of the Auror's wand, Harry allowed instinct to take over. Pulling Fleur with him he dove to the side, landing heavily on the floor and, immediately scrambling away from her, fought to get his wand loose, determined to protect Fleur from any following curses.

At the same instant as Harry moved, a block of wood suddenly appeared in the space which he and Fleur had stood only instants before. The curse impacted with the wood and it exploded, sending a shower of slivers over the assembled—Harry shuffled to the side, trying to avoid the slivers and splinters, feeling them as they impacted his head and jacket. Ignoring them for the time being, Harry shifted to one side, ensuring that he was in front of his betrothed and, coming to one knee, aimed his wand toward the Auror who had tried to kill them, noting with pride that Fleur had her wand in her hand and was scrambling up to support him, her face fixed in a determined scowl.

Thankfully, there was no more cause to worry. Though the attacker had gotten off his first curse before anyone could react, he was hit by two stunners fired from different sides of the room, going down in a heap seconds after his attack. He was lucky he had gone down quickly—a hail of spells followed the first and would have undoubtedly injured him seriously if they had actually hit him.

"Everyone please be calm," Dumbledore's voice sounded over the frightened voices of the crowd as he stepped forward. He appeared at Harry's side and said, "Harry, Miss Delacour—are you both well?"

"That was a handy piece of conjuration, professor," Harry noted, heaving himself to his feet. He reached down a hand and, grasping Fleur's, pulled her from the floor, saying, "At least I presume that was your handiwork?" With Fleur on her feet, she stepped to him immediately, molding herself into his side. Harry put an arm around her and could instantly feel her slight tremble, but one look at her implacable expression told him that it was from the adrenaline rush rather than fear.

"It was," Dumbledore agreed. "But that is one of the benefits of a long life—the expectation that anything can and will happen and the experience to react in an instant.

"But I believe we must discover what is happening," he continued, beginning to walk toward the downed Auror, who had already been trussed up in thick ropes. Then Dumbledore seemed to notice the greenish glow which was still coming in through the windows. Scowling, he raised his wand and made a circular gesture, as though he was stirring something, and almost instantly the glow began to fade and within moments was gone altogether.

Jean-Sebastian, who had almost been first on the scene, turned his troubled eyes to them as they approached, though he did nod with approval and thanks at Dumbledore. He checked Fleur and Harry over carefully and, seeing that they were both unharmed, turned his attention to the assembled who, now that the danger had passed, had begun murmuring amongst themselves.

"If everyone will please be patient, we will get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, Matty!" The diminutive house-elf appeared and bowed to his master. "Please organize the house-elves. See to our guests and ensure that no one has been injured. And have some elves check the grounds and make sure that nothing else is out of place."

"Yes master," the elf replied before he popped away. A few moments later several other elves popped in and began moving throughout the ballroom. Luckily, it turned out that there were few injuries to report. A few people had been hit by flying debris but, other than one lady who had a gash on her cheek—and she did not even know it was there until it had been pointed out to her—the injuries were limited to minor splinters and a small cut or two.

Gathering close, Dumbledore gestured to the man one the ground and asked, "Is this man known to you?"

"He's been a member of my staff for years. I would have sworn to his loyalty."

Dumbledore rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "If he has been deemed to be loyal, them perhaps he has been tampered with?"

Jean-Sebastian's face grew bleak and he gestured to one of the nearby Aurors. "Check the nearby rooms for anything suspicious—let's see if there is anything from which we can draw a few conclusions. Also, get some Veritaserum. And where is Jacques?"

"I don't know. I have not seen him in some time."

"Find him and direct him to me when you do."

The Auror bowed and move from the room, motioning several others to follow him as he departed. Jean-Sebastian turned his attention back to the bound man and appeared to consider him for several moments. "Jacques is my head of security—I would have expected him to come running at the first sign of trouble."

"You believe something has happened to him?"

"I cannot say," Jean-Sebastian declared. "It may be, or he may just have been called away to deal with something else."

"Ambassador Delacour," a voice stated. Harry looked up to see a middle-aged witch with a monocle on one eye approaching them. "If you would permit me, I think it would be best if our Aurors cooperated with your security staff to work through this investigation."

"Agreed," Jean-Sebastian replied with a bow. "You can use the main Floo in the entrance hall to send for some of your staff. Thank you, Director Bones."

Bowing, Madam Bones left to summon the British Aurors. At that moment, a cry went up from one of the adjacent rooms, and a moment later an Auror entered. He approached Jean-Sebastian, his expression grim, and began speaking earnestly in French. Feeling a lead weight in the pit of his stomach, Harry moved closer, an action followed by his betrothed, but the whispered conference abruptly ended and Jean-Sebastian followed the Auror from the room, leaving Harry wishing he knew what was going on.

"Patience, Harry," Dumbledore said by his side. "I daresay when Jean-Sebastian returns we shall discover what has happened."

As it turned out, Dumbledore was correct and they did not have long to wait, as only a few moments later, Jean-Sebastian returned to the ballroom, and from his expression, Harry could tell that his news would not be good. At the same time, Madam Bones reentered the room followed by several Aurors. Among their number were several that Harry had met before, including both Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks.

Jean-Sebastian approached them and as Madam Bones arrived, they gathered together for what Harry could see was to be a serious discussion. "My security forces found Jacques Fournier, my head of security. He was tied hand and foot and had been executed with a cutting curse to the throat."

Harry remembered Jacques. He was a gruff yet kindly man, who had been unmarried—a self-professed bachelor who declared he was married to his job. Though he had not been a personable or talkative man, his devotion to the Delacour family had easily been evident in the pride he took in his job, and the hours he had put in to making certain the family was as safe as possible. Jean-Sebastian had known the man for years—he would definitely be missed.

"Ah, Jean-Sebastian you have my condolences," Dumbledore responded. "I understand he had been with you for quite some time."

"Indeed he had," was Jean-Sebastian's tight reply.

Glancing over at the bound Auror, Madam Bones said, "Do you suspect this man of being controlled?"

"Unless he has managed to hide in my security detail for some years without being discovered as a closet supporter of Voldemort, then yes. I am confident that he would not have hurt anyone in my family willingly." Jean-Sebastian then looked over at Dumbledore and said, "Priori Incantato?"

Harry did not quite understand the meaning of Jean-Sebastian's cryptic statement, but Dumbledore apparently understood immediately. "Unfortunately, if our assailant was in any way competent, he would have cleared his wand," was Dumbledore's pessimistic reply.

"Sorry sir, but what is Priori Incantato?" Harry asked.

"It is a spell which shows the last spell cast by a wand, Mr. Potter" Madam Bones answered. "Unfortunately, its limitation is that it can _only_ detect _the last_ spell and not any before. If someone has used the Imperius Curse on the Ambassador's security Auror, then all he would have had to do was to cast a simple Lumos for example to remove all trace of his deed. It's referred to as 'clearing the wand.'"

This was something new to Harry and he thought that Hermione would have been thrilled to learn some new information, despite the situation.

Unfortunately, Harry was not given much time to think of this, as during Madam Bones's explanation, the Minister had approached them, and had apparently heard the last bit of it.

"What is this I hear about Priori Incantato?"

It was obvious to Harry that Jean-Sebastian would have preferred to ignore the Minister, given his generally obstructionist stance. His good manners won out, though, and he addressed Fudge, saying, "We were talking about using Priori Incantato on the wands of all the guests on the off chance that whoever did this did not clear their wand."

"Why would you need to do that?" Fudge demanded. "It seems pretty obvious that you already have the culprit in custody."

"Never," Jean-Sebastian stated firmly. "Gaston is loyal and true as anyone I have ever met. He would _never_ have done this if he wasn't forced to."

"That is beside the point," declared the Minister. "You cannot go invading the privacy of your guests—particularly since they are among Wizarding Britain's elite!—without even knowing if your supposition is true. You will need to establish that first."

Harry watched as Jean-Sebastian exchanged a glance with both Madam Bones and the Headmaster, before he nodded tightly to Fudge. "Then we will get you that proof."

The Minister was nonplussed, but Harry had an inkling of what Jean-Sebastian intended. A quick call to Matty, and the elf had situated a chair next to the waiting Ambassador, and the bound Auror was quickly placed in the chair. Another Auror quickly entered the room and passed a vial to Jean-Sebastian which he took and began working the stopper loose. The sight seemed to galvanize the Minister into action.

"You intend to use Veritaserum?"

"We do," Jean-Sebastian declared stonily, as though daring Fudge to object.

The Minister obliged. "I will remind you that Veritaserum is a controlled substance."

"And I will remind you that this is a crime which happened in the Ambassador's manor," Jean-Sebastian rejoined. "And the supposed perpetrator is a French Auror. I am able to authorize the use of Veritaserum in this instance."

"And even if he wasn't," Madam Bones spoke before Fudge could, "as this is a criminal investigation, I can do likewise."

"And in so doing, you will turn this ballroom into a courtroom?"

"Minister Fudge," Jean-Sebastian said, his tone faintly unfriendly, "as we require proof of this man's innocence, as you say, we must get it before we can allow the guests to leave, so that we may question everyone. There is a murderer here, whether it was Gaston, or one of our guests. I will do my utmost to ensure that justice is done."

"Of course," Fudge responded in a gracious tone, though his stony glare suggested anything but. "The protocols must be followed, and if you both agree, then we should get on with it."

Harry nearly scowled at the Minister, his distaste for the man almost making him lose his composure. It was as though he was determined to object to everything, and make life as difficult for them all as he possibly could. Of course he did—he was a politician, after all, and just about as much of a politician as anyone Harry had ever met.

"Very well," Madam Bones replied after a moment. "But before we begin, let me address the gathering.

She turned and directed a stern gaze toward the assembled who were still waiting—in most cases patiently—to be told what was happening. "Wizards and Witches, thank you for your patience. As some of you may be aware, in addition to the attack we witnessed this evening in this very room, a man was murdered."

A murmur of voices began as the guests processed this information, and it was several moments before they quieted down enough for Madam Bones to continue. "We will now be giving the suspect Veritaserum to establish his guilt or innocence. If he is guilty, then our task will be completed and you may all return to your homes. However, if—as is suspected—he is merely the victim of the Imperius curse, then we will need to question everyone in this room and inspect your wands."

"What give you the right to question us?" Lucius Malfoy said with a sneer. "I refuse to be involved in this demeaning matter—don't you know who I am?"

"I know _exactly_ who you are, Mr. Malfoy," was Madam Bones's response. It was clear from her firm tone that she was anything but intimidated by Malfoy's bravado. It was also clear that she suspected him of being more than just a "concerned citizen."

"This falls under the purview of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," she continued, "and therefore under _my_ authority. If you refuse to allow the inspection of your wand and answer a few questions willingly, then you will immediately be considered a suspect and will be subject to Veritaserum questioning. Am I clear?"

Malfoy merely waved his hand appearing bored at the proceedings. "Very well—do what you must. The sooner we end this farce, the better."

"There is one other thing," Madam Bones directed, looking sternly out at the crowd. "We will also be checking all of your wands. No spells are to be cast. I suggest you leave your wands wherever you are carrying them, as failure to abide by this stricture will also be deemed suspicious and result in Veritaserum questioning."

Turning back from the ballroom, Madam Bones gestured to Jean-Sebastian, saying, "Now, if you will do the honors?"

With a tight nod, Jean-Sebastian rose to his feet and approached the bound Auror. He took a small bottle off his desk and, with Sirius's help, pried the man's mouth open and allowed three drops from the bottle to fall into his mouth. Then, after a few moments had passed, he produced his wand and intoned, "_Enervate_," bringing the man back to consciousness. Gaston's eyes fluttered open and he peered straight ahead, the blank expression on his face indicating that the potion had indeed taken effect.

"Gaston, can you hear me?" Jean-Sebastian asked.

"Yes," was the answer.

"Very well. Please state your name."

"Gaston Gingras."

"Do you remember what happened earlier this evening?"

"I do."

"So you do know why we are questioning you."

"Yes."

Jean-Sebastian looked up and exchanged a glance with Dumbledore. Nodding at the other man, he proceeded to get to the heart of the matter.

"Did you kill Jacques Fournier tonight?"

"Yes."

"Please explain why."

"I was forced to do it."

"How?"

"I was told to do it and had no choice to obey."

"Why?"

"I… I don't know," Gaston admitted. "All I know is that I was commanded to kill Jacques. I couldn't disobey."

A relieved sigh met the Gaston's confession. Clearly, though Jean-Sebastian had been confident of the man's innocence and loyalty, the possibility—however remote—that he had been a traitor had been taxing. For himself, Harry was relieved as well. The attack was almost certainly the work of Death Eaters—this man, however, was not one of them.

With a glance at Fudge, Jean-Sebastian continued to question the Auror. "Can you tell us more of what happened?"

"I was walking rounds when I heard a voice behind me, but before I could turn around, I felt a strange calmness come over me. A man then commanded me to make no attempt to identify him. He then told me to find the chief of security, bind him and execute him in a way which would send a message. Then I was to enter the ballroom, cast the dark mark, make a statement that Mudbloods, Blood Traitors, and creatures would no longer be tolerated, and then kill Miss Fleur with the killing curse."

"Specifically Miss Fleur?" Dumbledore interjected.

"The man was adamant that it had to be Miss Fleur," Gaston confirmed.

"What of his voice?" asked Madam Bones. "Could you identify him based on his voice?"

"He used some sort of muffling charm to mask his voice. I doubt that I could identify him."

"Now Gaston, I want to be completely clear," Jean-Sebastian persisted, "you did what you did because you were commanded to and not because you are in league with Voldemort's supporters?"

"I am not in league with them."

"Would you ever want to put the lives of my daughters or my ward in jeopardy?"

"I would never have put your safety or the safety of your family at risk. I am devoted to protecting you."

"Very well," Jean-Sebastian responded. "Can we all agree that Gaston is innocent of the murder and casting the dark mark and the killing curse?"

A murmur of assent met Jean-Sebastian's question. He continued to peer over the ballroom for a moment before speaking again. "Does anyone have any further questions for Gaston?"

"One further," Madam Bones spoke up. "In doing your rounds, did you notice anyone out in the hallways, or snooping into areas which they should not have been?"

"No," the Auror replied. "There was no one in the hallways, and I found no problems in any of the rooms I checked."

With a sigh, Madam Bones sat back in her chair. "I didn't think so, but it was worth the question. I am sorry, Jean-Sebastian, but I'm not sure we have much to go on."

"Perhaps not. But then again, perhaps the questioning of the guests will lead to something. For now, I would like to see to Gaston."

Drawing his wand, Jean-Sebastian pointed it at Gaston, said, "_Somnus!_"

The Auror slumped in his chair and Jean-Sebastian motioned to two of the French Aurors to approach. They immediately took charge of Gaston, and left the room, levitating his body behind them.

"Gaston and Jacques were very good friends," Jean-Sebastian said by way of explanation. "He will be devastated when he wakes to realize what he was forced to do this evening. He will be transferred to the hospital in Paris for his recovery."

"Very well, Jean-Sebastian," Madam Bones said in a tight voice. She turned to a nearby English Auror, a tall man with read hair and an implacable mien. "Rufus, please organize your Auror force and arrange for the questioning of everyone in this room. Your team may follow their instincts, but at the very least, everyone should be questioned as to whether they saw anything out of place, what they were doing preceding the attack, and their wands should be checked. Include the teenagers, Rufus—let's make every effort to get to the bottom of this."  
"Yes, Director Bones," the man said with a bow, before he began carrying out his instructions.

The murmur of conversation swelled as the guests began speaking again of the shocking events of the evening, and while the Aurors quickly organized themselves, there was not much to do but wait. And though Harry witnessed several unreadable looks directed at him and Fleur, he ignored them and turned to his betrothed. "Are you sure you are okay?"

"I am well, Harry," said Fleur. Her smile then turned sly and she continued, "Thank you—you saw what was happening and reacted much more quickly than I."

Harry hugged her to him. "I couldn't let anything happen to my girl now, could I?" He pulled away and gazed at her somberly. "I'm sorry you've been brought into this—now they've targeted you directly. I think—"

"Do not even suggest it," said Fleur firmly. "_They _are at fault, Harry—not you."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm not giving you up, if that is what you are asking."

Nodding, and grateful for her support and equanimity, Harry turned, noticing that Ron, Hermione and their other friends chose that moment to approach. Behind them Mr. Weasley had stopped to speak with Jean-Sebastian. Though Molly Weasley stood at Mr. Weasley's side and looked at Harry with an unreadable expression, she made no effort to approach.

Hermione stepped forward and threw her arms around them both. "Are you okay?"

"We are well, Hermione," Fleur assured her while Harry only nodded.

"Typical Harry," Ron stated with a grin. "Can't get through anything without a little excitement."

"I think I could do without the excitement, thank you very much," Harry retorted.

"Harry, I think you might be a little confused," one of the twins spoke up.

"Just a teeny bit," chimed in the other.

Harry eyed the two with a critical gaze; knowing the two of them—not to even mention the identical expressions of mischief the two sported—their plan was undoubtedly humor, laced with a certain measure of embarrassment.

"It is generally considered good manners to wait until _after_ you have the girl alone to throw her down and have your way with her."

"Not to mention the fact that the use of a bed is generally preferable."

Now Harry was exasperated. "Can't you two _ever_ be serious?"

The twins looked at one another and sobered. "Of course we can Harry," one replied.

"We just wanted to ease the tension a little. Good job protecting Fleur—when that guy cast it was almost as though everyone else was caught in a freezing charm."

Mollified, Harry nodded. "It was so sudden. I wasn't sure what he was doing until he leveled his arm to cast."

"Good job, either way," Bill interjected. "You've been listening to Auror Moody, haven't you? 'Constant Vigilance?'"

Harry laughed and agreed, as the friends sat down at a nearby table to wait for their turn to be questioned.

* * *

The next two hours were tedious for the group of friends. The Auror force carried out its instructions quickly and efficiently, but the number of guests was such that it still took quite a considerable amount of time for them to work their way through everyone.

Sitting at their table, Harry and his friends talked in subdued tones, though they tried to avoid the topic which was most on everyone's mind. They spoke of the beginning of the new school term, discussed the remaining Quidditch games, and even speculated on the identity of the new Defense Professor who it was rumored was due to start at the beginning of the next term. Harry and Fleur even insisted on taking their turns being questioned by the Aurors, even though they were the obvious targets of the ballroom attack, so that any question of favoritism or breach of law could be dismissed.

Though Harry and his friends were not told anything specific, it did not appear to him as though much progress had been made. No one broke for the exits for having an incriminating wand, no one seemed to be answering the questions in any suspicious sort of way, and in short, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Finally, once the Weasley family had all been questioned and had their wands checked, Mr. Weasley announced his intention to take his family home for the evening. Having already finished himself, Harry decided that he would see them to the entrance to the manor, followed by Hermione, Fleur, and Susan Bones—who had sat with them during their discussions.

As they walked toward the exit, Harry chanced to be walking beside Bill, with Fleur on his other side. Bill glanced this way and that and, apparently assuring himself that there was no one nearby, leaned toward Harry.

"I know that they are trying to figure out what has happened tonight," he said quietly to Harry. "I'm no detective, but I _am_ a curse breaker. If you need me, Harry, you can call me at any time. I am a member of the Order too, so you should be able to get in touch with me through Dumbledore, or through any of my family."

They stopped in the coat room, and Harry turned and shook Bill's hand. "Thanks for the offer, Bill. You never know—we may have need of your expertise at some point. We'll let you know if anything comes up."

"Interesting little light show at the end, huh, Potter?"

As the hated voice reached Harry's ears, he turned with a stony countenance, noticing Draco Malfoy standing behind him and eying the group with his customary sneer. In behind him stood his father and mother, the father showing a carefully disinterested expression, while his mother barely glanced his way, as she was more intent upon peering this way and that as though something offended her.

"Now Draco, you should not speak in such a manner," Lucius Malfoy admonished, though his own contempt was visible for anyone who wished to look. Draco had just enough sense to look slightly abashed, and though Harry was not unaware of the fact that Lucius was not concerned in the slightest for what had occurred that evening, he was not entirely certain why the man had rebuked his son. Perhaps it was nothing more than appearance—Draco's words _had_ been remarkably tactless, even for him!

Harry, however, was not about to allow the little bigot to have his say without pushing back. "I would hardly call someone casting the killing curse a 'light show,'" Harry ground out. "Of course, I suppose that to your father and his cohorts casting the killing curse is just another day in the office, isn't it?"

Once again, Lucius Malfoy's infuriating eyebrow rose at Harry's jibe and though Mrs. Malfoy appeared oblivious to the exchange, Draco's chagrin quickly become a scowl. To his side, Bill stepped forward and laid a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Harry, I think you should let this be and allow the Malfoys to return to their home."

Lucius simply ignored Bill, focusing exclusively on Harry. "Come now, Mr. Potter," Lucius replied. "Surely you are not suggesting that _I _had anything to do with tonight's little excitement. The questioning the Aurors put me through proved my innocence, I should think. Personally, I chalk the whole episode up to poor security, though I suppose I could not have expected anything better."

"I'm not _suggesting_ anything," Harry said, ignoring the man's insult. "I'm telling you that I know that you had something to do with it; whether you were the one who actually cast the spell or not, you were involved up to your eyebrows."

A faint smile graced Lucius's face, though Draco's face was purpling at the insult.

"Those are pretty big words for a jumped-up Halfblood, Potter," he hissed.

"At least I can back up my words, ferret," Harry jibed. "After the beat downs you've absorbed over the years, I would have thought you'd be a little more cautious, but I guess intelligence just doesn't run in your family."

This seemed to garner Mrs. Malfoy's attention, as she swept up and hissed, "You filthy little cretin! My Draco is ten times the wizard you'll ever be!"

"Only when it comes to threatening to tell daddy," Harry spat contemptuously.

Eyes blazing with offense, she sucked in a breath, no doubt to begin a diatribe, when Lucius cleared his throat, silencing his wife and his heir. Mrs. Malfoy sniffed with disdain before she turned on her heel and strode back to her husband. Draco appeared as though he wanted to say more, but a quelling gaze from his father ensured his silence. Once his family was under control, Lucius turned his attention back to Harry and he appeared to consider him for several moments as he rubbed his chin in thought.

"I see I shall need to bring up your behavior with your guardian when I meet with him."

"You do that," Harry said dismissively. "For now I suggest you leave and take your spawn with you. Ask him about the past four years at Hogwarts if you want to correct someone's behavior."

"Mr. Potter, I believe that my son has given you advice on a number of occasions, which you have not seen fit to accept. Let me give you some right now so you may avoid dangerous mistakes in the future." He fixed Harry with a stern glare which may have been intimidating if he were not already furious and feeling nothing but contempt for the man. "It is not generally a good idea to accuse someone when you have no proof. I suggest you avoid this in the future, for if you give offense, you may be required to back up your words."

"Sage advice indeed."

Jean-Sebastian approached them with a neutral expression on his face, though Harry thought he could detect a hint of derision for the Malfoys in his eyes. Glancing about the room, Harry noted that the little stand off had garnered some attention, as many of those who had already been questioned had made their way to the entrance hall, and now stood talking quietly amongst themselves, watching the drama.

Harry was feeling rather belligerent at the moment and he did not particularly care whose attention he attracted. It was clear to him that Malfoy had been involved in the attack, whether he was the one who had actually pulled the trigger or not. The blond git had gotten away with so much over the years and Harry was not in the mood to allow him to get away with any more.

Now was not the time, however, and he recognized that Jean-Sebastian had intervened and that the confrontation now needed to end. There would come a time when Malfoy would pay—Harry promised that he would see to it, if no one else would.

"Mr. Malfoy is correct, Harry," Jean-Sebastian stated. "It is not wise to accuse someone when the matter has not even been fully investigated."

"Yes sir," Harry replied, still glaring at the Pureblood family. "My apologies, Mr. Malfoy for accusing you."

Of course no one—least of all the Malfoy patriarch—missed the fact that Harry apologized for the accusation, and _not_ the sentiment behind it, and Harry made certain that he said not a word more than was absolutely required. Malfoy, however, chose to ignore it altogether, instead busying himself with his overcoat, and making certain that his family was ready to leave.

Jean-Sebastian, however, grinned at Harry and said, "Now what did we say about calling me that?"

Responding with in kind, Harry nodded his head and turned to take Fleur's hand once again in his own. Jean-Sebastian had turned back to the Malfoys.

"Thank you for coming tonight and you must allow me to apologize for the unpleasantness. You may be assured that we will get to the bottom of it."

"Of course," Malfoy replied with a nonchalant nod of his head. His attitude was enough to get Harry's dander up yet again, but this time he was able to get his emotions under control, while Fleur helped by squeezing his hand.

"Please contact me and we will arrange a time to meet. Now, if you will excuse us."

Malfoy nodded and with a look at his family, they turned and walked through the Floo, heads held high. As if on cue, those who remained also began taking their leave, and before long, the room had emptied of all but the inhabitants of the manor.

Jean-Sebastian turned back to the small group of youngsters—besides Harry, Hermione, and Fleur, Susan Bones was still present, as her aunt had not yet come to collect her. "The questioning of the guests is complete now. Miss Susan, if you will go upstairs with Hermione, you will find that a room has been prepared for you and one of your house-elves has brought you some clothes. Your aunt has agreed to attend further discussion tonight, and it will likely be very late before we finish."

"Thank you, sir," Susan replied, and after a few words with their friends—the Weasleys had stayed behind, watching the confrontation—the two young witches departed.

Once they had gone, the Weasleys also took their leave, the children promising to meet Harry and Fleur again on the Hogwarts Express. Then Harry and Fleur turned back into the house, following Jean-Sebastian as he made his way toward his study. As they walked, he turned his attention to Harry. "Harry, I understand your frustration," he began, "but it really does not do any good to confront Malfoy about what has happened here tonight."

Scowling, Harry retorted, "I'm not going to sit here and allow that bigot to slander you and Fleur, and claim innocence. Fleur could have been killed tonight—I take that very personally."

"As do I," Jean-Sebastian replied and while he kept his calm tone, Harry could hear the hint of steel he injected into it. "Harry, I have no doubt that he was involved. You know it, I know it, and he knows it. But I doubt that we will ever be able to pin it on him—at least not based on the information available to us tonight. There is no point in accusing him, and every reason to keep silent.

"You may not know this, but he could have challenged you for what you said to him." Jean-Sebastian turned a very serious eye on Harry and continued very soberly. "Of course I doubt he would—even one as obviously morally bankrupt as Lucius Malfoy would think twice before challenging an underage wizard to a duel. The societal backlash would be significant, especially if he challenged _you_. Still, you should not goad him like that."

Though he was still angry and wished to cause as much physical damage as possible to anyone bearing the name "Malfoy" Harry could only admit that Jean-Sebastian's advice was prudent. Thus, he nodded his head and said, "I understand. But we will make them pay some day."

"Of that you may be certain, Harry," was Jean-Sebastian' reply. They shared a grim yet determined smile.  
"Are you two done with the male bravado?" Fleur asked sweetly, though a look at her face showed that she was as determined as either of them.

"No bravado—only a promise, my dear," Jean-Sebastian said smoothly. "Now let us leave this discussion for now. The Minister is here and as you know, he will not hear anything against Malfoy."

They arrived at the study and stepped into the room. In addition to the aforementioned Minister, Madam Bones, Sirius, Dumbledore and Apolline sat in quiet conversation. Leading his betrothed by the hand, Harry moved to one of the remaining seats in the room, sitting once he had held Fleur's chair for her to be seated. He had taken his seat when he noticed Jean-Sebastian's smirk, which he returned with one of his own—Fleur was a lady, and he would treat her as such.

"Now, let us recap what we all know of this affair," Jean-Sebastian began. "We all saw what happened in the ballroom, and heard the explanation from Gaston. Madam Bones, if you could give us an update as to what your Aurors discovered."

"Unfortunately, precious little," Madam Bones replied. "As we suspected, none of the wands showed anything unusual, and certainly not an Unforgiveable. A few of the guests reported seeing another leave the ballroom for whatever reason, but all of those were most likely for innocuous reasons—going to the washroom or the like. However, as guests had been leaving the ball for some time before the incident, we must also face the possibility that whoever did this left immediately after he committed his crime. We may never know anything more about this, I am afraid."

Silence settled over the room, and Harry considered the situation glumly. It appeared likely the criminal would get away with his murder, and he had no doubt that wherever he was, Voldemort would soon be celebrating.

"That is most unfortunate," Minister Fudge spoke into the silence. You have the condolences of my government."

Jean-Sebastian inclined his head, but said nothing in response.

It was Dumbledore who spoke next. "I believe we must discuss the implications of what has happened this evening."

"Yes, by all means, let's," said Jean-Sebastian, his voice hardening. "This was a direct attack, not only on one of _my Aurors_, but also on _my daughter_. The casting of the Dark Mark appears to point directly toward Death Eater activity."

"Now wait just a minute," Fudge protested. "We have no proof of anything at all; least of all that it was a Death Eater."

"Then how do you account for the Dark Mark, Minister?"

"Anyone who knows the incantation is capable of casting the Dark Mark," Fudge responded firmly. "It could have been nothing more than a diversion—an attempt to throw us off the real reason for the attack,"

"The real reason seems clear, Cornelius," interjected Dumbledore. "The Death Eaters see a threat to themselves and their master due to Jean-Sebastian's alliance with and support for Harry."

"I see what you are trying to suggest," Fudge snapped. "I would remind _again _you that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named cannot have returned. The man was confirmed dead at the end of the war—continuing to insist upon his impossible return can be considered seditious."

"Did _you_ find a body, Minister?" Dumbledore asked mildly. "I can tell you that I investigated the attack on the Potters, and I certainly_ did not_."

"That is completely beside the point," the Minister sputtered. "He is dead and cannot return. I urge you all to give up this obsession."

"I can give you my memories!" Harry exclaimed.

"Your memories are not needed or wanted, boy," spat Fudge. "I have no knowledge of what you _think_ you saw, but whatever trickery you were subjected to, I can assure you that it was not the return of You-Know-Who."

"Regardless of whether or not he has actually returned, surely you can see the need for increasing Auror funding and heightening our state of alertness, Cornelius," Dumbledore replied. "There is clearly something at work which is trying to assert influence—the presence of the Dark Mark tonight proves that if nothing else. Surely we should be prudent and prepare for any eventuality."

"And I have told you more than once, that there is no need," insisted the Minister. "I will not be party to creating a public hysteria."

Rising, Fudge eyed each one of them in turn, though Harry could sense his air of disdain when his eyes roamed over Harry. In all honesty, Harry did not care, for the feeling was completely mutual.

"Madam Bones," the Minister finally said, "you of course have my blessing to work with the Ambassador's Aurors to determine anything further from this tragedy, and if we are able to identify and apprehend the culprits, then all the better. There are sufficient Aurors to step up patrols if you feel it necessary, but the Ministry budget is tight and there is no more money available for the DMLE.

"Having said that, I will remind you once again—no announcements are to be made without my express permission, and certainly nothing of any speculated Death Eater activity. If you can bring me clear and incontrovertible proof that proves otherwise, then the Ministry's official stance will change. I am sorry to Mr. Potter, but the testimony of an underage wizard is simply not sufficient."

His scornful glance at Harry belied his seemingly conciliatory words. Harry ignored him—the Minister had proven himself to be beneath notice time and time again.

"For now, if you will excuse me, I believe I shall return to my home, if you will allow me the use of your Floo, Jean-Sebastian." At the other wizard's tight nod, Fudge thanked him and stepped through the Floo.

"I believe that man is becoming more of a liability now than ever," Sirius growled.

"I shall pretend that I never heard you say that," Madam Bones replied with a smirk at Sirius. "Off the record I must say that Cornelius has been more erratic than ever recently, and his self-contradictions are becoming even more blatant. He publicly stated at Mr. Potter's trial that rogue Death Eaters had to be responsible for what happened at the Quidditch World Cup, and now he doesn't even want to admit that they might still be active."

She paused for a moment deep in thought, before she turned to Jean-Sebastian. "_Assuming_ this was an attack perpetrated at You-Know-Who's command, what was its purpose?"

"It was a warning," Jean-Sebastian casually stated.

Madam Bones gazed at him steadily. "A warning to you particularly, or to those who oppose him in general?"

"Both, I imagine.'

"I agree with Jean-Sebastian," Dumbledore spoke up. "First, it seems like a warning to Jean-Sebastian—a suggestion that his present path of supporting Harry is not safe. That the strike was directed at the head of Jean-Sebastian's security detail and then at his daughter suggests that Voldemort wished to demonstrate that his family is at risk. Even more, I think it was a warning that no one is safe—everyone is touchable; everyone who opposes Voldemort will find themselves targeted."

"And I expect that when I meet with Lucius Malfoy, the threats will be much less subtle," Jean-Sebastian added. "I don't know if he planned to find a way to meet with me, but I am certain he will not let the opportunity slip by."

"Then I believe we need to move to the heart of the matter," she responded after a moment, "Mr. Potter, I believe you have made the case several times that You-Know-Who has returned, but I have never discussed this personally with you." Her eyes swiveled to Sirius. "And my apologies to you, Mr. Black—I promised a meeting with you to discuss your experiences as well as your knowledge of Mr. Pettigrew, and have failed in that regard as well.

"What I would like to understand from all of you," she addressed the entire room, "but particularly from you, Mr. Potter, is what proof do you have to offer of the Dark Lord's return? Much as I am loath to agree with the Minister, we cannot mobilize our forces unless some concrete evidence is given."

Instantly Harry had his wand out from his holster and he said, "By my life and magic I swear that I saw Lord Voldemort return to life on the night of the third task of the Tri-Wizard tournament. So mote it be!"

A flash signified his magic's acceptance of the oath and quickly Harry cast a Lumos spell. "Is that enough, Madam Bones?"

A chuckle met his question. "I can see that you can at times be as impetuous as Susan claims. By the way, since you swore on your _life _as well as your magic, the light spell was somewhat redundant, don't you think?"

"I just wanted to make sure that there was no misunderstanding."

Chuckling, Madam Bones bowed her head. "I assure you there was not. Unfortunately, your oath only proves that you _believe_ that what you have told me is the truth—it does nothing to establish the _actual_ truth of the matter, reluctant as I am to—again—agree with our esteemed Minister."

"Then I'm not sure what I can tell you."

Though she was silent for several moments, Harry could tell that the Director was sizing him up, and if he was any judge at all of such things, that he had not been found wanting. He would have expected her to scowl at him and perhaps brush him off as nothing more than an attention seeker at best, or a dangerous liar at worst, if she thought he was lying. Instead, she sat regarding him speculatively, perhaps intent on whether he was up to the task. Harry felt that here was a woman he could trust.

At length, she once again began to speak. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Potter—why don't you start from the beginning and tell me what you saw that night, so that I may judge for myself?"

"I believe we can do even better than that, Madam Bones," Dumbledore interrupted. "If Jean-Sebastian will grant me the use of his Floo, I shall return to my office at Hogwarts and retrieve my pensieve. Then we may all view the event."

Jean-Sebastian readily agreed and the Dumbledore left the office, to return in less than five minutes with the rune-covered bowl Harry remembered from the previous year. The Headmaster set the bowl on a table Jean-Sebastian had moved to the middle of the room, and then he approached Harry with a smile on his face.

"Now Harry, we need to extract the memory so that we can place it in the pensieve and then we can all view it. Now, what I would like you to do is to concentrate on the memory we need and will it from your mind. I will withdraw it with my wand and insert it into the pensieve."

"Is there anything specific you want to see?"

Dumbledore appeared thoughtful for a moment and he glanced around to the other occupants of the room. "It may take some time, but why don't we go with the whole thing? That way we can keep it all in perspective. So start from your arrival in the graveyard and then finish with your escape."

So Harry concentrated as instructed, and soon he noticed a glowing silvery strand at the side of his head by his temple. He did not feel a thing, but it was strange that something like that was emerging from his head, and being attached to the Headmaster's wand. A few moments later, the Headmaster had inserted the memory strand in the bowl where it mixed with the silvery liquid which filled the bowl almost to the brim. The Headmaster then set about tapping certain runes on the side, while explaining what he was doing.

"Normally, a pensieve requires you to 'enter' the bowl to see the memory—essentially to lower your face into the bowl, which takes you into the memory itself. With everyone here," he gestured around the room, "it would take far too long for us all to view the memory two at a time, which is about all the room in the bowl. This particular pensieve, however, has a set of runes built in which allows us to 'project', if you will, the memory up into the air so that we can all see it. There is no need for anyone to move—part of the magic of the bowl is that you will all see the memory as though you were looking through Harry's eyes."

After a few more moments, Dumbledore stepped back from the bowl, and took his seat. A few moments later, the memory began to play and Harry heard a voice saying the words which had haunted his dreams for the past seven months. "Wands out, d'you reckon?"

Feeling almost ill at the thought of once again reliving the events of the previous year, Harry hung his head and would not look at the memory. He had seen it all before—nothing new would be gained from seeing it again.

Fleur apparently recognized his pain, as she raised her hand to his back and began to rub it, though she did not take her attention away from the drama which was now playing out before them.

The memory lasted for less than half an hour—though at the time it had seemed like it had taken several hours before he had been able to escape!—and through it all, Harry found himself reliving the horror of that night. Though time had passed and to a certain extent the memory had been blunted, hearing it again—as he refused to look up—brought it all back in vivid detail and he began to wish that he had stepped from the room. At least that way he might have been able to avoid the nightmares he was certain would visit him again that night.

At the end of it all, Madam Bones sat backing her chair and, after removing her monocle, she sighed heavily and rubbed her eyes. But after that brief expression of fatigue, she immediately put her monocle back in and faced them all, a sternness back in her countenance.

"I believe for the time being, I shall ignore the obvious question of how You-Know-Who managed to place his spirit inside the homunculus."

Harry, having looked up when the memory had ended, happened to be looking at the Headmaster when Madam Bones spoke, and he was shocked to see Dumbledore's eyes tighten slightly at her statement. It was clear to him all at once—Dumbledore clearly knew something of how Voldemort had cheated death! He was even more astonished in the next moment when Dumbledore, seeming to feel someone's gaze upon him, looked over and, evidently seeing that Harry had guessed the truth, shook his head minutely, indicating a desire for Harry to remain silent. All at once he thought of Dumbledore's request earlier that evening for a discussion between them—was this what Dumbledore wanted to speak of? And if so, what precisely did it have to do with Harry?

So surprised was he, that Harry almost missed the Director's next question. "If you would be so kind, I would like to focus a little further on the ritual you observed."

Nodding his head dumbly, Harry waited for her to continue. "Nothing in your memory suggests it, but do you know the name engraved on the tombstone?"

"No," Harry responded slowly, understanding why she had asked the question, "but it doesn't matter. His name is Tom Riddle."

An eyebrow rose at his declaration. "And how do you know this?"

"When I killed the basilisk in second year I met up with his shade. He told me then what his name was."

"Ah yes, the events of your second year," the Director said with a nod. "An episode which cemented your celebrity status I should think.

"Very well then. I must say that I doubt that you and Cedric Diggory were the only victims that evening. Though I am not familiar with necromantic rituals in general, such magic comes at a terrible cost to the innocent, and as _you_ were specifically named as You-Know-Who's enemy, I doubt you qualify as an innocent. The initial preparation of the potion would almost certainly have required a sacrifice, or likely more than one. No doubt this Pettigrew used Muggles to supply what his master required."

Aghast, Harry looked to the Headmaster and his spirits sank even further when Dumbledore nodded tightly. "That bastard," he whispered.

"Indeed," agreed Madam Bones. "However, as it is already done, all we can do now is to oppose him and ensure that he is finally defeated, and that justice is done for those who were used by his evil. I do not need to tell you all that it will not be easy, especially since Fudge is doing his best to tie our hands."

"And now we're back to the fact that Fudge is a liability when we should be preparing for war against the Death Eaters," Sirius stated.

It was a simple fact and none in the room felt it necessary to chide Sirius, or suggest that Fudge could be worked with to ensure their preparedness. The man had proved so pigheaded and adamant that Voldemort had not returned—there was obviously no common ground upon which to stand. It fell to Jean-Sebastian to voice the question they were all thinking.

"_Can_ he be removed?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Unfortunately, I do not have the votes necessary for such a measure. As you are aware it takes a two thirds majority of the Wizengamot to unseat a Minister, and the fact of the matter is that I do not have the support."

"Why is he so popular?" Harry demanded. "He's an idiot!"

Chuckles broke out around the room, though it was Madam Bones who spoke first. "Although I have many times tended to agree with you, I would advise you not to be so eager to say such things, Mr. Potter. He _is_ the Minister, after all, regardless of whether or not we agree with his policies."

"And in answer to your question, Harry," Dumbledore continued, "he is not _popular_ as such—he is more _useful_ than anything else. Unfortunately, the Minister is corrupt, though I have never been able to prove anything, and many factions know this and know his support can be bought. As such, they would rather keep him in the position he is in rather than risk a new Minister who would be hostile to their agenda."

"But he cannot support _every_ faction," Harry protested.

"No, he cannot," Dumbledore agreed, "but he by and large does support the supremacist faction because Lucius Malfoy pays him to do so, and though the diehards are a small faction, they have a lot of sympathy from other Purebloods."

"Headmaster," Madam Bones admonished, "I would prefer you did not speak in such a manner."

"You know it as well as I do, Amelia," Dumbledore said with a shrug. He turned his attention back to Harry. "In addition, the other factions know that they can buy his loyalty for a price if the need is great, and Lucius has been known to allow this, in order to advance the fiction that the Minister is not on his payroll."

It did not bode well for the magical world in general, Harry thought, if such a thing was allowed not only to occur, but also to continue in such a manner. Leaving such an obviously corrupt and self-centered man in a position of such power was beyond reprehensible. Why would anyone want to save a world which was so incredibly backward and biased was beyond his understanding.

"I can't believe they would simply leave him in power if they know what a poor minister he is," Harry said with a shake of his head, voicing his inner thoughts.

"Ah, but is it not exactly the same in the Muggle world?" Dumbledore asked rhetorically. "How many rulers have been petty despots who ruled only to enrich themselves, or satisfy some quest for power? How many have been corrupt? I think you will find history rich with such subjects, Harry, though I will grant you that magical England does seem to be in dire straits at the moment."

"There is no reason to save this world, unless we change it," Harry said after a moment of thought. "We are all risking our lives, and for what? So that the next dark lord can come along and do the same thing all over again? I don't know about anyone else in this room, but I am not willing to risk my life just so that I can do it all over again in twenty or thirty years."

"An admirable goal," Jean-Sebastian replied, his face shining with some pride. "You have hit on the crux of the problem, Harry. But remember that changing the world is not as easy as you would like."

At Harry's questioning expression, Jean-Sebastian sighed and continued. "Tradition and custom are very important in the magical world, and as you have seen with the Pureblood faction in particular, respect for one's ancestors—assuming your ancestors are who you want them to be—is paramount. You cannot simply ignore centuries of tradition in your quest to change the world—those traditions must be respected."

"And as such," Dumbledore took up the explanation, "you must find a way not only to reform the government and the attitudes of the populace, but you must also do so while respecting the traditions of the people. This is precisely why so many Purebloods look down on Muggleborns; they bring new—and what the conservatives consider radical—ideas with them, and often they give no thought to many of the things which we consider dear to us."

"That's actually one of Hermione's failings, Harry," Fleur spoke up in a quiet voice. He turned to look at her and she looked away shyly, clearly concerned that he would take this as a criticism of his closest friend. "She often doesn't understand things about the magical world, and so she just assumes it's just an old tradition and tries to convince everyone that there's a better way to do it. There _may be_ a better way, but there may also be reasons why something hasn't changed, or why things they are the way they are. Her opinions about house-elves were a very good example of this, until I explained the relationship between house-elves and wizards and the reason why they bond with their families."

It made a certain sort of sense to Harry and, while he could not think immediately of any examples, he felt positive that there must be some way to bridge the gap and change the magical world to a more tolerant society, while respecting the traditions which were so important to the Purebloods. It would bear some thought and after all, he had time—he _was still_ only fifteen.

He looked around the room and noted that most of those in attendance were looking at him to see how he would respond. He was struck by the sudden epiphany that _he_ was the only one in attendance who had not been raised in the magical world. Certainly he had a magical heritage from his father, but everyone else in the room had actually been raised in a magical household and as such, they were likely all talking about things which were important to _them_. It was a humbling thought—many of those he thought highly of would likely support reforms which would remove the prejudices of the world, but they still did not wish to see their world completely disappear, replaced by one which bore only a cursory resemblance to that which they knew and loved. Even Jean-Sebastian and his family, though they were from a different land, fit into this mold as France, they had assured him, had its own share of problems which could be eased by a more progressive attitude.

Harry was filled with determination. He was not certain what part he was to play in this war or in the aftermath, but he was the vaunted Boy-Who-Lived, and surely that fame and celebrity must count for something other than making his life miserable. It would be his life's mission to ensure that things _did_ change in the magical world, but that those things which were cherished by the people he loved would be protected.

"I understand, sir," Harry said with conviction, while squeezing Fleur's hand, which was held in his own, to show her that he took no offense at her words concerning his best friend. "I don't know exactly why I'm important to Voldemort. But I do understand that he keeps hounding me. I am willing to oppose him, but changes need to be made to make sure that another dark lord doesn't show up to take his place, and with the Malfoys of the world spreading their message of hate, that's what will happen if we leave things as they are. I understand that there are things which are important to all of you, and I would like to see those things protected. We will need to work together to get it right."

Smiles beamed around the room and Harry was relieved that apparently he _had_ gotten it right. The support and approbation of these people meant the world to him—it felt good to have people who loved him standing at his back and supporting him in whatever he did.

"Very good indeed, Harry," Dumbledore rumbled as he pulled off his glasses and wiped at his eyes. "I would have you know that I have no talent whatsoever in divination, and I am no seer, but I believe that I can say with conviction that you will one day be among the leaders of our world, and I daresay you will do us all proud."

"Thank you sir," Harry said softly, grateful for the Headmaster's approbation. He quietly caught the eyes of both Sirius and Jean-Sebastian, and they both nodded at him, which made feel all that much better.

"I guess the question is, what can we do now?"

Harry's question silenced the group for several moments as they all considered the situation. It was, perhaps unsurprisingly, Madam Bones who first spoke up.

"Now that I know the truth of the Dark Lord's return, I can begin to put measures into place. I can increase patrols and if any Death Eater falls into my hands, I can pump him full of Veritaserum to obtain the truth. The Minister would find it hard to dismiss evidence like that."

"The fact remains, however, that without a strong Minister, this fight will be very difficult indeed," Dumbledore said. "We must find a way to either find enough votes to have him removed, or find some other way to dismiss him."

"And in so doing, keep to the law." Madam Bones fixed Dumbledore with a pointed stare. "We will not stoop to Fudge's or—Merlin forbid!—Malfoy's level. If we do, then we are no better than they are."

"I perfectly agree, Madam," Dumbledore said with a bow.

"As do I," added Jean-Sebastian. "However, I believe it is very late and we will not solve this dilemma this evening. I suggest we all seek our beds and continue this on another occasion."

A chorus of agreement met Jean-Sebastian's declaration—Harry had not realized just _how late_ it was, and a glance at the clock revealed that it was now several hours after midnight. As if to punctuate the statement, Fleur had to stifle a great yawn and Harry, as such things were wont to spread, felt one approaching as well.

Madam Bones chuckled and rose to her feet. "Thank you for keeping Susan tonight, Ambassador—I appreciate not having to wake her to go home."

"It is a pleasure, Madam. I believe that she gets along well with the others in residence—if it would be easier for you, we would be happy to host her until they return to Hogwarts."

Appearing to consider it, Madam Bones nodded thoughtfully. "In truth, because she is now in Hogwarts for ten months of the year, I see little enough of her as it is. But as tomorrow is likely to be busy, I may take you up for the day and then pick her up in the evening. We will keep in touch concerning the investigation into last night's events. I doubt we will find anything more, but it cannot hurt to be thorough."

"Of course. Just let me know what you intend to do."

After a final round of good-byes, Dumbledore and Madam Bones stepped through the Floo and vanished from the manor, leaving Sirius, Harry, and the three Delacours behind. Tired as he was, Harry did not protest in the slightest when Jean-Sebastian directed he and Fleur to go to their beds.

Harry walked his betrothed to her room, keeping her hand held tightly ensconced within his own, happy with the feeling of closeness which had developed between them.

They had just arrived at Fleur's door, when the French witch turned shyly to him and pressed a light kiss on his lips. "Thank you for protecting me tonight, Harry. You took no thought to your own safety—that means a great deal to me, though I do wish you would develop a small sense of self-preservation." She grinned. "I _would_ like you to make it to our wedding, after all."

"I promised myself that you will be kept safe," Harry murmured in response. "I mean to keep that promise."

"Thank you. But remember—I'm here for you too. And I promise to keep you safe too."

"Then it's a pact," Harry replied. His eyes trended downward to her perfect lips. He leaned in and as he was brushing her lips with his own, he murmured, "We'll just have to protect one another."

Exhausted, Harry entered his room and quickly readied himself for bed, hoping against hope that the evening spent reliving the night Cedric had died would not continue in his dreams. With any luck, they would instead consist of a beautiful, smiling girl, with lips soft and tender, begging to be kissed.

* * *

_Updated 07/23/2013  
_


	34. Chapter 33 – Disturbing Revelations

**Chapter 33 – Disturbing Revelations**

The days following the ball were quiet at the manor. Hermione was still staying with them preserving the usual trio of friends, of course with Gabrielle tagging along devotedly. In addition, Susan stayed with them throughout that week before school once again began. Though Madam Bones had originally intended to retrieve her niece after only one night, the events at the ball, as well as some of the new measures she was implementing with the Auror office saw her working long hours at the Ministry. Thus, the original plan was converted to a request for the Delacours to host Susan until she was to return to Hogwarts, a plan to which Jean-Sebastian and Apolline had readily assented.

Susan was in fact a good addition. She was intelligent and thoughtful, and fit in with them seamlessly. Often, Harry found himself outnumbered by the girls, as they talked and laughed and spoke of things which did not interest him. And though he often wished that Ron or Neville were staying at the manor, he still felt comfort in their friendship and presence and was able to sit back and allow his mind to wander when they moved to topics in which only they had an interest.

Unfortunately, in the days after the events at the ball, nothing further had come to light regarding the attack. Rufus Scrimgeour—the head Auror—and Madam Bones had their Aurors working closely with those who guarded the manor, but it appeared that the perpetrator had hidden his tracks very well indeed. It was still early in the investigation, but it was quickly becoming clear that catching whoever had initiated the attack would be difficult. Personally, Harry was all for pumping Malfoy with Veritaserum until it began running out of his ears to get the truth from him, but knowing it was not about to happen, he contented himself with daydreaming of the man finally getting his comeuppance.

Malfoy's complicity with the attack had been further proven to Harry's mind when he had been awakened later the night of the ball—not long after going to bed, in fact—by a surge of triumph from the Dark Lord, not that Harry required such confirmation. Clearly Malfoy—or whoever had actually cast the curse—had returned to Voldemort's side and reported his success, leading to the emotion which woke him. He had waited until the following morning to report his experience to Jean-Sebastian, rightly deciding that they were all tired and there was no rush. He knew that Jean-Sebastian was still to meet with the blond Pureblood, and while the confrontation with Malfoy would not in any way be cordial and Malfoy was obviously a skilled and dangerous man, Jean-Sebastian was every bit his equal in confidence and skill—the disgusting Pureblood was in for a very rude awakening if he tried to intimidate the head of the Delacour family.

Of further concern, Jean-Sebastian's staff was now operating under a handicap. With his chief of security, Jacques, now dead and the second in command, Gaston, incapacitated and recovering in France, it was unsurprising that the security detail was a little demoralized and disorganized. Jean-Sebastian had not mentioned what he planned to do for the future, but Harry suspected that he would not allow the situation to continue for long.

It was the second day of the new year when an event occurred which was to change Harry's life once again. With the events at the ball, the Headmaster's request to speak with him had largely been forced from Harry's mind, contrary to what he would have thought upon first hearing the request. Thus, when he received Jean-Sebastian's request to join him in his study, Harry at once thought of Dumbledore and his words the night of the ball, assuming the Headmaster was here to speak with him.

With more curiosity than dread, Harry entered the study, noting the presence of not only Dumbledore and Jean-Sebastian, but also of Sirius as well. He was greeted cheerfully and invited to take a seat. A round of small talk—how he was enjoying his vacation, what he had done, etc—ensued, though fortunately for Harry's growing impatience, it did not continue long, as Dumbledore soon came to the point.

"Now Harry," Dumbledore began, peering at Harry intently, "you can probably guess that I did not ask to meet with you to discuss your holidays." When Harry nodded in assent, he resumed speaking, "In fact, I have some serious matters to discuss today, matters which are particularly of concern to you."

Glancing around the room, Harry noticed the almost grim expressions on the faces of both Jean-Sebastian and Sirius. A sinking feeling began in his stomach—clearly whatever Dumbledore had to discuss was not some trivial matter and his original instinct of this being very bad news had been correct. He swallowed thickly and nodded to Dumbledore to come to the point.

"Very well," Dumbledore responded. "Before we begin, however, I wish to make two things very clear to you. The first is that you are surrounded by many who love you and wish the best for you—whatever you are required to face in life, you shall not do it alone.

"And second, I wish to make it very clear to you that you have not heard of this matter yet _by_ _my insistence_. If you feel that you have been ill-used because this information has been withheld, then it is _my fault_ and _mine alone_—Jean-Sebastian and Sirius are not to be blamed. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied, wondering why Dumbledore was insisting on this. He trusted the men in this room and could not imagine that they would keep him in the dark if it would put him in danger. Of course he wished to know everything which may affect him, but he doubted there was anything for which he would hold a grudge. Surely it could not be _that bad!_

"Good," was Dumbledore's response. He then sat back and his eyes lost focus as he seemingly considering what he was going to say. A glance at the other two men did not reveal anything, though Sirius did attempt to lighten the atmosphere a little by winking and smiling at him. Harry returned his smile with a halfhearted effort of his own.

"Harry, do you remember when you asked me why Voldemort was after you?"

Momentarily confused by this seeming non-sequitur, Harry nevertheless recalled the incident immediately. "After the confrontation with Quirrel."

"Yes, exactly," replied Dumbledore. "I told you at that time that I could not answer you because you were too young. In some ways, I must admit I still feel that way. However, Jean-Sebastian and Sirius have convinced me otherwise and as you have shown much maturity in the past several months, I have agreed that now is the time to answer your question."

Surprised, Harry sat back in his chair. If he had thought anything in advance of this meeting, it was certainly not that he was about to learn the answer to the question which stood at the center of his messed up life. He felt conflicted—elated that he would finally learn the secret, while apprehensive at the same time. Still, it was knowledge, and fitting a missing piece into the puzzle of his life could only be good.

"You see, Harry, the great mystery of your connection to Voldemort is that of a prophecy, which was made before you were born."

Harry frowned. "A prophecy? I don't know, sir, Divination seems kind of dodgy if you ask me."

"Indeed you are correct," Dumbledore replied, chuckling. "Divination, as my dear colleague Professor McGonagall would say, is a woolly discipline, and I would have to agree with her. For a time, I had actually considered dropping Divination from the curriculum of Hogwarts.

"However, prophecy—true prophecy—is real. It is not a skill which can be taught, nor is it a skill which can be controlled, and true prophecy will not be given in your Divination class using the methods Professor Trelawney's class. True seers have no control over their gift—they divulge prophecy when the time is right, and they only proclaim a specific prophecy once. Furthermore, when a seer is gripped by the prophetic influence, they speak without realizing it, and can never remember that which he or she has prophesied."

"Then what happens if they give it when no one else is around?"

"A very good question, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "If there is no one there to listen, then the prophecy would presumably be lost. However, there is an ancient magic which encompasses the world. When a prophecy is given this magic detects it, and a record is created in the Department of Mysteries."

"Any prophecy from around the world?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Indeed. The magic does not distinguish national boundaries and languages."

"The origins and secrets of how to create this magic have been lost to time, Harry," Jean-Sebastian spoke up. "However, it is known to be accurate. It is also relatively easy to tap in to it, and _that_ is something which has not been lost to us. There is a similar department in the French Ministry which also records prophecies, and many other countries do so as well."

"Then, does that mean that there is a record of this prophecy in the Ministry?" Harry asked. "As well as one in France?"

"There is, indeed," Dumbledore confirmed. "There are also copies in many locations around the world. We cooperate with other nations to ensure that prophecies are not lost. I will not go into it in any great detail, but suffice it to say that any prophecy that has ever been made has been recorded for posterity's sake.

"Now, as you may or may not be aware, prophecy even in its simplest form is never a _direct statement_ on what will happen. Unfortunately, it is never given in plain language. For example, you will never see a prophecy which predicts that you will win this year's Quidditch Cup—rather, you may be given a series of cryptic statements which _suggest_ you will win the cup if certain actions are undertaken."

Thinking about the matter for several moments, Harry thought back to a series of books he had read at the library when he was younger. The series had been a typical good against evil type fantasy story, and as he recalled it had depended heavily on the type of obscure prophecy of which Dumbledore had been speaking. As he recalled, the prophecy in that work was largely based on the ravings of a madman—he dearly hoped that was not the case in real life. He considered bringing it up, but rejected it, thinking that Dumbledore would let him know if that supposition was true.

"So, a prophecy is difficult to understand," he suggested hesitantly.

"That is correct, Harry," agreed the Headmaster. "We may make educated guesses, we may see patterns, and we may understand a certain portion of a prophecy by study, knowledge, and even a bit of guesswork. However, the true meaning of any prophecy will almost certainly be completely understood, only after the events it predicts have happened."

Harry frowned—something the Headmaster said earlier pricked his memory and he thought about it for several moments before he finally spoke again. "I'm sorry, Professor, but something doesn't quite add up. You said that a prophecy is a series of statements which _may_ occur, given the proper sequence of events. Isn't prophecy a prediction of what _will_ happen?"

"A very good question again, Harry," the Headmaster said with an approving smile. "Though we are getting rather far afield, I shall indulge you once more before we delve into the matter at hand. You see," he continued conversationally, "there are two different types of prophecy.

"First, you may recall that I stated that a prophecy is never a _direct statement_." Harry indicated that he did, and Dumbledore carried on. "The first type of prophecy is indeed a statement about what will happen, despite of any efforts to the contrary. However, because it is never a _direct statement_, it can be open to interpretation, regardless of the fact that nothing we do can change it."

Harry frowned in thought. "But professor, doesn't that mean that people may still _try_ to change it, regardless of the fact that they_ cannot?_"

"That is _exactly_ what I am saying, Harry," confirmed the Headmaster. "The subject of prophecy becomes even more difficult when I tell you that the second kind of prophecy is a series of statements of what _might_ happen given the proper series of events."

His head swimming at the complexity of what Dumbledore was trying to explain, Harry frowned and then looked back up at the three men with whom he was speaking. "It seems to me that a lot of havoc could be created with this sort of uncertainty, sir."

"An excellent supposition!" Dumbledore replied. "You are indeed correct, Harry. History is rife with instances where a prophecy was misunderstood—people have spent years trying to avoid a prophecy which was unavoidable, and conversely, others have spent similar amounts of time trying to ensure a particular prophecy came to pass, often based on an incorrect understanding of what exactly that prediction entailed. These prophecies are often referred to as being 'self-fulfilled prophecies'. The events depicted may never have happened if they had not interfered, and in many cases, it would have been better had the end result _not happened_, as it was not what the person expected it to be, nor was it in any way beneficial. Prophecy is indeed a very delicate phenomenon, and must be treated with extreme care."

"Then can I assume that you can't tell if a prophecy is inevitable or not until after the prophecy has been fulfilled?" Harry asked.

"Unfortunately, even then it is not easy." Dumbledore paused and rubbed his chin. "After all, if a lot of effort has been put into making sure a prophecy came to pass, who can say that it would have occurred anyway? That part of the equation is something which is almost never completely understood."

As the explanation wound down, Harry thought about what the Headmaster had said. Dumbledore had said that a prophecy had been made before his birth, but had not in fact mentioned what type of prophecy it was or even if it had been fulfilled. Harry felt that the logical assumption was that it had not been fulfilled—otherwise, why would the headmaster be speaking of it now? Furthermore, the idea that this prophecy existed at all filled Harry with a certain dread—it was equally obvious that the prophecy concerned him in some way, otherwise they would not be about to share it with him.

It would make sense, he mused, if there was some sort of prophecy out there which had totally screwed with his life. Otherwise he would just have to assume that there was some deity who was determined to make him miserable. The idea of a prophecy was much easier to swallow and, more importantly, gave him a fighting chance to survive.

"I assume that the prophecy was about me then?" he asked, turning his attention back to the three men.

"It was indeed, Harry," the Headmaster confirmed.

Harry considered the matter further. The faces confronting him were serious, but not overly morose, which could be interpreted as a good sign. It would at least indicate that it had not predicted his outright death at the hands of the madman, though that too would be apropos given his luck—Harry Potter, required to die so that the Dork Lord could be defeated. He would not put it past fate to require such a sacrifice from him.

"Well, I suppose there's nothing else to do," he replied. "Lay it on me—then we'll figure out what to do."

"A true Gryffindor," Dumbledore proclaimed proudly. "You truly are an exceptional young man, Harry, and though I am indeed sorry for laying this burden on you, I agree with Jean-Sebastian and Sirius that it is one which you are able to bear."

Harry glanced at the other two men and, seeing their encouraging nods, returned his attention to the Headmaster. "I think I'm ready, sir."

A short pause ensued, leading Harry to surmise that Dumbledore truly would prefer not to be required to impart this information. He only stopped for a moment, though, before he began speaking. For the first time, Harry listened, and to a certain extent—through the obscure statements, began to understand why he had been targeted by Voldemort.

_"__The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. … Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies … and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. … The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."_

As Dumbledore's voice quieted, Harry's brow furrowed in thought. The Headmaster had not been kidding when he said that prophecy was never given in clear, forthright language. Regardless, Harry thought he could detect an understated cadence in the words, almost as though they were speaking to him, though that was not quite the right analogy. Whatever it was, Harry, though he did not immediately understand everything the prophecy contained—as Dumbledore had warned him—nonetheless knew that it concerned him. How he was certain of this he could not say, but subconsciously, he knew it was so. Hopefully, whatever the Headmaster could explain would help make the prediction easier to comprehend.

"You weren't kidding when you said it wasn't clear," he quipped, trying to break the mood in the room a little.

"No, I was not," Dumbledore agreed. "Yet it contains certain phrases and events which give us clues to unraveling it."

"So," Harry began slowly, "which kind of prophecy is it?"

"That's the question, is it not?" Dumbledore asked rhetorically. "Arguments can be made either way and only in hindsight will we gain further understanding, though even then it will not be perfectly understood. As for this specific prophecy, I very much fear that though it may have been conditional in the beginning, that now it is very much set in stone, as they say."

"How do you mean?"

"The prophecy was given just before you were born, and though it did not initially point to you in particular, subsequent events have confirmed that _you_ are indeed the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. Your parents having defied Voldemort three times made you a candidate, but there was one other who was born under similar circumstances, who also could have been the one mentioned in the prophecy."

"Do I know this other person?"

"Indeed you do. In fact, you share the same dorm at Hogwarts."

Frowning, Harry thought of the four boys with whom he shared a dorm, before it came to him—it was obvious. "Neville!" he exclaimed.

"That is correct Harry. Though you may not know this, your births were only about an hour apart, though on different days. There was very little to distinguish between you."

This was all giving Harry a headache, but underneath it all made a strange sense. Neville had never been what he would call a close friend—Ron and Hermione filled those roles—but he had always felt a strange kinship for the young man. Was this the reason? And if their births had been so close, why was Dumbledore now certain that the prophecy concerned him rather than Neville? Other than the obvious fact that Voldemort seemed to be obsessed with him, of course…

Upon voicing this question, Dumbledore sighed and glanced at both the other men. It was Sirius who reached over and, lifting the fringe of Harry's hair, answered his question. "It's because of your scar, Harry."

"_The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal_," Dumbledore intoned. "It is that third line which tells us so much more, Harry, and I will endeavor to explain to you how it came about."

The Headmaster sat back in his chair, but though his eyes never left him, Harry was almost certain that he was wrapped up in his thoughts, presumably trying to determine how to present the information that he held. Jean-Sebastian and Sirius still considered him gravely, but they were also projecting an air of support and affection. It warmed Harry, knowing that whatever was to come, he would not have to face it alone.

"A strange quirk of fate intervened with this particular prophecy," Dumbledore continued after a few moments of silence. "Though of course I cannot state for certain, the circumstances surrounding its coming to light may indeed mean that there was no way to avoid it from the start. I simply cannot say for certain. What I can tell you is that _I_ was the one to whom the prophecy was given."

Harry blinked—_that_ was unexpected. "To you, sir?" he queried.

A tight nod met his question. "It was. I had been giving an interview for the position of Divination professor at Hogwarts when it was given. Unfortunately, a young Death Eater overheard part of the prophecy, and hastened to tell his master, which drew Voldemort's attention upon you and Neville."

Sitting back, Dumbledore continued to speak, though his tone was more introspective than focused. "I have often wondered what he was thinking, to be drawn into prophecy like this. The Tom Riddle I knew was pragmatic and intelligent, and openly disdained fate and any form of predestination. I would not have thought that he would have given much credence to such a vague warning.

"But then I suppose the part that was overheard appeared to be much clearer than the entirety put together. That may have forced him to act, regardless of whether he wished to or not, and it is his actions which have brought us to this point."

"What did the Death Eater overhear?" Harry asked quietly.

"Only the first two lines, my boy," replied Dumbledore. "Thus, he heard the prediction of your birth and that you would have the power to defeat his master, but failed to hear that Voldemort would mark you as his equal and the rest of it. If he had heard that part, Voldemort would undoubtedly have acted more cautiously."

It all seemed so odd. A small quirk of fate, an overheard conversation, and suddenly the attention of a madman was fixed upon him. Or fixed upon Neville? Why had Voldemort come after _his_ family instead of Neville's? He surely must have known when Neville was born, if he was aware that Lily Potter had given birth.

"But why me?" Harry asked. All at once aware of the fact that his question could be considered a tad whiny, he modified his question. "Why did he choose me over Neville?"

"Ah, that we will never know," Dumbledore replied. "It may just be because you were the first opportunity which fell into his lap. You are aware of Pettigrew's betrayal, of course." At Harry's nod he continued. "Though the Longbottoms were attacked a few days _after_ Voldemort's defeat, it is possible that they had not been compromised yet. Or, it is possible that you were closer, or that any number of other circumstances played into his decision. We will never know unless he chooses to reveal his thoughts, something I believe is highly unlikely."

"You've got that right," Harry muttered.

"However, the fact of the matter is that _he did choose you_ and as such, it is now clear that you are the one who the prophecy refers to. There is now no longer any question."

"Because of my scar."

"Because of your scar," the Headmaster confirmed. "To be honest, I am personally of the belief that it referred to you anyway, though that is really neither here nor there. The fact that he attacked and marked you removes all doubt."

"So if I understand this correctly, it's kill or be killed," Harry stated.

"That is one way to interpret it," Dumbledore agreed, "but I would caution you not to assume you know exactly what it means. The prophecy only states that you have the power to defeat him, not the exact manner in how it may be accomplished."

"But it also means that he has an equal chance of defeating _me_," Harry pointed out.

"I cannot refute that possibility," Dumbledore allowed. "However, do not become caught up in the thought that you have to kill him. The interpretation is open to many things. For example, you could sneeze, causing a wind to spring up, which would eventually lead to a storm, a lightning strike on a tree, which topples and kills him."

"Like that will bloody happen," Harry snarked.

"I don't disagree," the Headmaster said amiably, ignoring Harry's language. "I was not intending to be realistic, just to point out that many strange things happen in this world. Fate may have another manner in ensuring the Dark Lord's defeat than what seems easy to understand."

"Fate may also intend for him to win," Harry said morosely.

"Now, let's not be morbid, shall we?" Jean-Sebastian spoke up. "Take heart, Harry—the prophecy does state that you will have the power to defeat him. Certainly it does not say that you _will_, but you should not assume that you will lose to him."

"But he's powerful and has a lot more experience than I have."

"And you are powerful and have a drive I've rarely seen in someone so young," Sirius responded. "Have a little faith, Harry, and hang on to hope."

"Thinking positively can change your perspective on many things," Dumbledore added. "We're all here to help you, as are Miss Delacour, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, and all your other friends. Regardless of what the prophecy actually says, do not believe for a single moment that we would all abandon you to face your fate alone. And besides, it may be even more comforting for you to think that the fact that a prophecy was given at all seems to indicate that you are destined to be victorious. I do not put a whole lot of stock into predestination, but it is still comforting and better to hold positive thoughts."

Taking a deep breath, Harry forced closed his eyes and willed himself to calm. It was not easy—not every day did you find out that you had to kill a dark lord or be killed yourself!—but the thought of his friends and their support was indeed comforting.

"I understand," he finally said, forcing a smile to his face. "I think I need some time to think about this, though."

He sat in silence for several moments, thinking about what he had just learned. It was a shock, but on a certain level it was not entirely unexpected. His life was far too strange and contrary to rule out anything, really.

Harry had been thinking for several moments when he became aware of the uncomfortable silence which had settled over the room. The three men were still regarding him gravely, giving Harry to understand that something was amiss. A pit appeared in the middle of his stomach at the thought that there could be something still worse than this prophecy.

"What? Don't tell me that there is another prophecy that says I have to die to defeat him."

"No, Harry, there is not," Dumbledore said, the disapproval evident in his voice. "I would ask you not to joke about such a serious matter."

Now he was truly concerned—there was more. And it had become increasingly clear that it was no better than what he had already been told.

"There is something else indeed, Harry," Dumbledore intoned. "It is only connected peripherally with the prophecy, however, and only because Voldemort decided to take action because of hearing of the prophecy."

"Is it really that bad?" Harry asked with considerable trepidation. Though hearing of a prophecy which foretold that you had to defeat a powerful dark wizard or die yourself had not seemed to truly faze his companions, they were now downright grim. It was making him extremely nervous.

"Let us say that it is not good," Dumbledore said after hesitating slightly. "I shall tell you, but I would ask that you hear me out completely before you react to this news. Let us discuss it rationally."

Not trusting his voice to remain steady, Harry merely nodded, feeling an impending doom, or rather like an axe was about to fall on his head.

"Let me begin by explaining that there is a branch of magic known as 'soul magic'. It is not very useful—and not very well known—and has almost no practical application for the most part. However, suffice it to say that though the Muggles have speculated that we each have a soul, magic has proven this fact.

"Now, I say that soul magic has almost no practical application," Dumbledore continued, his tone even, but very serious and focused. "There are methods, for example, of gaining an imprecise estimation of how powerful a person is, as a person's magical power is thought to originate from the soul. Not exactly useful, but to the right person, certainly interesting.

"But though I have stated that _most_ soul magic has little application, there are uses which not only do have a practical application, but are also among the foulest and darkest of magics known to man. Unfortunately, as you have likely already guessed, it is one of these spells that I am obliged to discuss with you."

Sitting back once again in his chair, Dumbledore sighed and passed a weary hand over his face. It was clear to Harry that even speaking of this was draining to the Headmaster, and if it was so, this "vile magic" to which he was referring, must be disgusting indeed. The fact that it was apparently tied to him was something which Harry did not truly wish to think about—at least not until he knew exactly of what the Headmaster was speaking.

"The specific magic of concern to us today, is that of a horcrux," Dumbledore finally said, and though he appeared determined to continue, his hesitance was obvious. Harry briefly had a fleeting, and somewhat silly, thought that even the name evoked a sense of horror, had he not already understood that they were not speaking of a garden variety cleaning spell.

"A horcrux, simply described, is a soul container," Dumbledore continued. "You may ask what a soul container is, other than a normal container, which is, of course, a physical body. Essentially, it is a vessel for a portion of the caster's soul to be stored. And though the casting extracts a horrible price, the benefit for the caster is to grant an… immunity, for want of a better term, to passing on. Now, I wish to be clear about this—the horcrux _does not_ grant immortality, nor does it prevent death. However, if a person has an active horcrux, their spirit will remain tethered to this world as long as the horcrux exists."

"Then that must be how Voldemort didn't die!" Harry exclaimed.

Dumbledore nodded, a smile appearing on his weathered face. "Exactly correct, Harry. In fact, I believe that you have already had contact with a horcrux belonging to Voldemort."

"I have?" asked Harry, confused as to when such a thing could have occurred.

"Think back to your second year," Dumbledore prompted. "When you fought the basilisk in the chamber and rescued Miss Weasley, what appeared to be the cause of the problem?"

"The diary!" Harry cried out. "But I destroyed that, and Voldemort's shade disappeared. How can he have come back?"

"Because I believe that he did not create just one." Silence fell over the room as Dumbledore's statement reverberated throughout the room. "In fact," he continued after a moment, "I believe that he likely created several. It is certain that he created at least one more, given the fact that he has now managed to return himself to a body, but knowing Tom Riddle as I did and understanding his fascination for certain things, I suspect he made a specific number, and that he chose a magically significant number. You may not know, not having chosen the Arithmancy elective, but certain numbers are magically significant. Among those numbers, are three, seven, and thirteen."

Harry was aghast. "So he may have as many as twelve more of these things lying around?"

Gravely, Dumbledore nodded his head. "I doubt there are twelve. The creation of each horcrux exacts a toll on its maker, making him less human and more prone to unsavory and unwanted traits. And beyond that, I doubt a soul could withstand so much breakage as to perform the ritual thirteen times.

"Rather, I suspect that he may have made six in total—six horcruxes, and the master piece of the soul yet in the body. Seven is a magical number as potent as thirteen, and would provide a number of horcruxes which would not render him mortal had someone come across one and destroyed it by chance, yet enough that he would feel secure and safe. I cannot tell you exactly how Tom became so obsessed with death and the desire to stave it off, but he has. I can tell you that it is the one thing he fears above all others."

Harry sat silently considering. It was so much worse than he had ever imagined—not only was the insane psychopath after him, but he was also an _immortal, insane psychopath!_ If he was un-killable while his _horcruxes_ existed, then whatever chance Harry might have thought he had against him just went out the window.

"Now I wish for you to understand a few more things before we get to the heart of the matter."

"You mean these horcruxes aren't the worst?" Harry demanded with a gasp.

"As vile as they are, unfortunately not," Dumbledore confirmed. "I would ask your indulgence for another moment so you may understand fully how truly disgusting these creations are."

When Harry nodded his assent—though inside he was a mass of churning emotions—and Dumbledore continued. "The first thing you must know is that the creation of a horcrux requires a sacrifice. As Madam Bones pointed out, sacrifice is a staple of such rituals. It also requires an act so heinous that the soul will become fractured, for want of a better term, so that the piece of the soul may be drawn from the body and installed inside the intended object.

"Now, I have no knowledge of exactly what is required in order to prepare a vessel for the piece of soul, nor do I wish to obtain such knowledge. What is important to understand is that the vessel _is_ prepared, and then the person fractures their soul by committing a most grievous crime—the person murders another in cold blood. They then complete the spell to extract the piece of soul to the object, which becomes a horcrux."

"That's… rather unpleasant," Harry muttered.

"I believe it is beyond unpleasant," Dumbledore replied. "Regardless, that is in a broad sense the process one must invoke to create a horcrux. The other thing you need to understand is that a horcrux is generally indestructible by normal means."

Frowning, Harry protested, "But I destroyed the diary easily enough."

"Ah, but you used one of the only known substances capable of harming it," Dumbledore said. "Basilisk venom is among the most toxic substances known to wizards, and as the fang was liberally coated in it, the fang was sufficient to destroy it."

_That_ was a lucky happenstance! Harry was not eager to contemplate what might have happened had he tried to destroy the diary by any other means. Though the pain had been excruciating and the feeling of the venom working its way through his body like fire in his veins, it seemed that it had been a _good thing_ that the basilisk had managed to bite him, otherwise, Voldemort might have returned two years earlier, and Harry undoubtedly would not have survived.

"You may not be familiar with the properties of magical objects," Dumbledore continued, oblivious to Harry's thoughts, "but as a goblin-made weapon, the Sword of Gryffindor is a weapon which imbibes substances which make it stronger. As it has now come in contact with basilisk venom, the sword is now an even deadlier weapon than before. It will be our prime tool for destroying Voldemort's horcruxes when we begin that task. The only other method reliably known to be able to destroy them is fiendfyre, which is not something which should be cast indiscriminately."

"Do you know what his other horcruxes are?" Harry asked, though to his own ears it sounded like a demand. This whole conversation appeared to be akin to something directly from a second rate horror movie, and Harry was desperate for some good news.

Seeming to catch on to Harry's mood, Dumbledore smiled and said in a reassuring tone, "I have been researching Tom Riddle for years, tracking his movements where I can, and studying him to the best of my ability. I believe that I know more about him than perhaps anyone else alive. I have begun to investigate leads on the location and nature of his horcruxes, but unfortunately it is slow going, and will likely take more time and effort to learn more of them."

At this, Dumbledore seemed to hesitate, as though he did not wish to continue. A quick glance at the other two men revealed the expressions they had worn since the beginning of this meeting. Abruptly, Harry realized that whatever Dumbledore was about to divulge, _this_ was the point of the day's discussion. He was about to discover the worst of the whole mess, and given the subject matter, Harry could feel the welling fear in the pit of his stomach, telling him that it would be beyond bad.

"In fact, Harry, I am forced to tell you today that I believe I do indeed know the location and composition of another horcrux, much to my everlasting regret." The ancient wizard paused, once again seeming to show every one of his substantial number of years. He then looked up and caught Harry's eye and spoke resolutely. "It is you, Harry," he said quietly. "I believe that you are one of Voldemort's horcruxes."

"_I_ am a horcrux?"

"Yes. Or more accurately speaking, I believe your scar is a horcrux."

Harry stared back at the headmaster, his eyes widening with disbelief and revulsion. "But—but… Are you serious?" he demanded once he had found control of his voice.

"Unfortunately, I am," was Dumbledore's sad reply. "Do not believe that I would inform you of such an appalling thing if I was not confident of my findings."

"Then you may be wrong?" Harry said, clinging to the hope that it was just a horrible mistake. "You don't know for certain?"

"I do not, and yes there is a possibility that I may be wrong, though I do not think so."

Rising, Harry began pacing the room furiously, compelled by the sudden nervous energy which had shot through him upon Dumbledore's statement. It was not true. It _could not_ be true! However could such a ghastly thing be residing in him? How could it even have happened in the first place?

"I take it this is not a conclusion you have suddenly come to?" he said as he stopped and stared as his energy gave way to sudden anger.

"It is not," Dumbledore confirmed calmly.

"Harry," Jean-Sebastian spoke up, "I must tell you that I also have known for some months now. I know that I promised to divulge everything I knew to you and in this I failed. I apologize to you most heartily."

"And in the end, the decision was _mine_," Dumbledore intervened with an iron firmness which reminded one why he was arguably, the preeminent wizard in the world.

"Why?" Harry asked. "Why would you all keep such a thing from me? If it's even true."

"Is it not a burden, Harry?"

The quiet voice of the Headmaster reverberated through the room, and Harry was forced to an abrupt stop. "None like I've ever imagined," Harry admitted.

"_That_ is why you were not told. You don't tell an eleven-year-old child that he hosts a portion of a maniac's soul—he would not be strong enough to handle the burden. Besides, though I had always guessed that Voldemort was not gone for good, it was only after you destroyed the diary that I had begun to suspect exactly what he had done. It has been more years of study since that event to bring me to this conclusion, and I do not come to it lightly, I assure you."

"But how can you be certain?"

Dumbledore sighed and motioned to Harry's chair. "Please sit, Harry, and I will tell you." When Harry had—grudgingly—returned to his seat, the ancient man continued his explanation. "Of course I cannot be completely certain, as no spell exists which can confirm the existence of a horcrux. Basic scans do detect an aura about your scar which is certainly suspicious."

"Why would Voldemort want to make me into a horcrux?" a bewildered Harry asked.

"I do not believe that he did intend to do so," the Headmaster responded. "I believe, rather, that he had intended to make a horcrux from your death. A very strange thing happened, though, and you survived his killing curse."

Harry frowned. "I've always wondered about that," Harry admitted. "If there were no surviving witnesses, then how do you know that I survived a killing curse?"

"We don't, exactly," Dumbledore stated. "What we have is a series of circumstances which lead us to believe that you did. Voldemort kills using the killing curse, and by no other means. Only he could tell you why, but I believe it to be, again, largely symbolic; a statement that somehow he is above the law, and that he disdains those laws, such as those concerning Unforgiveables, that the rest of us are bound by. Thus, it is almost inconceivable that he would attempt to kill you by any other means.

"Then, we have the fact that your scar is an anomaly. You obviously did not receive it by means of a cutting curse, or any other such relatively benign spell, but it shows none of the traces of any other known spell, dark or otherwise. It is therefore, my opinion, that Voldemort tried to kill you using the killing curse, but that you were protected by your mother. She sacrificed herself, using that sacrifice as a means of protection for you, though I do not know what ritual she would have used. Your mother was very intelligent—perhaps she came across something she used to protect you, or perhaps she designed something on her own.

"In addition, it is obvious that Voldemort had prepared the ritual and vessel for the horcrux, I believe intending to complete the spell once he had murdered you—a sort of symbolic statement about defeating what he believed would eventually become his greatest enemy. But with your mother's protection, his curse backfired, disembodying him. The deaths of your mother and father had already fractured his soul, and the fragment latched on to the nearest source of magical energy—you."

"And what else makes you believe I am a horcrux?" he asked quietly.

"Many things. The aura I disclosed to you earlier, the reaction and pain in your scar you have always had in his presence, the connection you appear to have with him. All of these things support my theory. I am sorry, Harry. I would be extremely happy to be proven wrong, but I believe that is not likely."

It made a certain amount of mad sense Harry had to admit, though he would rather admit just about anything else. Weariness settled over him and though he tried not to think about the implications of what he had been told, one thing seemed clear.

"I have to die, don't I?" Harry blurted out, cringing to himself as he did so. It was not a Gryffindor thing to be whining about hardships. Gryffindors charge forward, after all. Only right now, he did not really feel like charging anywhere in any manner. "Sorry, sir," he said immediately after. "It does no good to dwell on it."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Sirius said, moving closer to Harry's chair and placing his hand on Harry's shoulder. "This is a lot to take in, Harry, and I'd be pretty worried if you were not devastated by all of this."

"And in answer to your question, Harry," Dumbledore broke in, "I do not know how to remove it. _Yet!_"

Harry's head whipped up and he peered at the Headmaster intently. "What do you mean?"

"I believe I have explained before, Harry, that all magic has a counter, and just because it has not yet been discovered, does not mean it does not exist. I have been researching horcruxes extensively for many months now, ever since you destroyed the diary and I began to suspect the existence of the horcrux in your scar.

"And there may be other sources as well. The horcrux is actually an ancient Egyptian spell, and though references to it here are sparse, as right-minded people have been destroying them for centuries, we may have more luck finding more information there than here. I shall have to think on it."

"So, we may be able to get rid of it?" Harry asked hopefully.

"There is always a way to counter a spell," Dumbledore repeated firmly. "We just need to find out what it is. Then we can take the appropriate steps. Do not lose hope, Harry. We will find a solution."

Nodding, Harry looked about the room, noting that the day had progressed while they had been sequestered with them. He was feeling a great fatigue, both of the body and mind, and wished for nothing more than to find his room and collapse onto his bed. He would not likely find sleep given his present turmoil, but perhaps he would be able come to terms with all he had learned today and find a little perspective.

"Is that all, Professor," Harry asked. "If so, I think I should spend some time thinking about all of this."

"I think all the weighty revelations have been taken care of, Harry," Dumbledore confirmed. "But there is one more thing we need to discuss."

"Your connection with Voldemort is a problem, Harry," Jean-Sebastian interjected. "Luckily, it seems that he does not yet know of its existence, but we can only assume that he will eventually discover it. You must learn to close it off."  
"How can I do that?"

"There is a branch of magic known as Occlumency, and it is essentially the process of defending one's mind from outside attacks, though it does also have other benefits. With your permission, I will ask Fleur to instruct you in its use as she has been practicing it for some time."

Harry considered that, thinking that it would be very good to prevent Voldemort from invading his dreams at all hours of the day and night. And maybe he could prevent the pain when he was nearby.

"Does it take a long time to master?"

"To fully master, yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "But if you are diligent, you will obtain a certain proficiency within a few weeks, enough to withstand a remote attack, I believe. The opposite form of magic is known as Legilimency, and it allows one to see into the mind of another. Voldemort is very skilled in this branch of magic, and if he were in the same room, he would no doubt overwhelm your defenses in a matter of moments, unless you had had several years of practice. Since we do not intend for him to be so close to you for some time to come, a basic proficiency should allow you to shut him out if he is not nearby."

"Very well, sir," Harry acknowledged with a tight nod. "But I want something from you too."

Dumbledore immediately acquiesced, though Harry could see a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "I want you to teach me everything you know. This whole thing comes down to him and me and he's already got years of experience on me. I don't have much of a chance as it is, but I'd like to learn whatever I can in the time I have."

"That's the spirit, Harry!" Sirius exclaimed, slapping him on the back.

"I agree," Dumbledore responded, "though I would caution you not to lose all hope. Yes, he has many years of experience to draw upon, but remember 'the power he knows not'. Your amazing capacity to love others, your ability to inspire, and the support and love that you engender in return, are all things that Voldemort has no concept of. These things may end up tilting the balance in your favor. Keep a positive outlook."

"I will, sir," Harry responded, and seeing that the interview was now over, he excused himself from the room, wishing to seek solitude in his own room. It was a lot to come to terms with.

* * *

In another part of the house, Hermione sat with Fleur and Susan, alternately turning pages in her book, but more prominently worrying about her closest friend. Some sixth sense had told her that the Headmaster's arrival that day portended some great event, and knowing her best friend, she was certain that Harry was at the center of it.

Harry Potter. The very name sometimes filled her with exasperation. He was quite possibly the most pig-headed, stubborn, trouble magnet that she had ever met in her entire life. He was also the most compassionate, considerate, wonderful person of her acquaintance, and she was aware of the fact that if she had not already admitted her deep attraction for him, there would be no denying it now.

She was on the cusp, she knew. She was almost ready to accept Fleur's proposal. Not everything had been worked out yet—she did not know what her parents would say, she was still insecure about Fleur's beauty and felt like an ugly duckling in comparison, and she still did not know if she could share his love with another, but she was also as sure as she could be, as a mere sixteen-year-old, that she would regret it for the rest of her life if she did not seize this opportunity. It was just a matter of feeling Harry out to see if he felt the same as she did. That and making him aware of the possibility, of course.

Stifling a giggle, Hermione thought of Harry's probable reaction to the revelation. He was modest and such a… a… _boy!_ He would no doubt be embarrassed at the situation; she could imagine seeing him stammer and shift from foot to foot when confronted by it. Hermione decided she would have to think on it carefully, after considering the situation for a moment. Harry was very noble—he would possibly refuse to even consider the possibility of having two wives, if he thought it would spare her any discomfort. She would have to make certain he understood from the start that she wanted this—only then would they be able to bring him around.

A movement in the hallway caught Hermione's attention and she looked up in time to see Harry shuffle past the open door to the sitting room they were using. Before she had formed a conscious thought, Hermione was out of her chair pursuing her friend, subconsciously noting the presence of her friends on her heels.

The sight that met her eyes filled her with dismay. Harry appeared exhausted and beaten down; a far cry from the happy teenager he had been only that morning.

"Harry?" she asked, hesitant to disturb him in this state, but knowing he would mope about whatever was bothering him if she did not intervene.

He turned and roused himself enough to give her a ghost of a smile. "Hey, Hermione," he said and then he continued to walk away.

Following him, Hermione noted that Fleur was still on her heels, though Susan had disappeared somewhere. The other girl had become a friend in the previous weeks, but she still did not have the emotional connection to him that Hermione and Fleur possessed. She had obviously sized up the situation and removed herself, knowing that any discussions would likely be personal.

Hermione followed Harry back to his room where he entered and flopped down on the edge of the bed, dejection showing in his every movement. By now Hermione was becoming frightened—what had happened to cause such a drastic shift in his demeanor in only a few hours?

Sharing a concerned look with Fleur, Hermione approached his bed and sat down beside him, while Fleur took his other side. She watched as Fleur gathered one of his hands in her own and began to caress it with her other hand. Hermione focused on her friend's face, willing him to look back at her.

"Was it bad news?" she asked quietly.

Glancing up, Harry's eyes searched hers for a moment, before he turned to look at Fleur with equal intensity. He then flopped back down on the bed and groaned, while tiredly rubbing his eyes. "The worst," he confirmed with a sigh.

"Perhaps you should tell us then," Fleur prompted. "If you share the burden, it becomes easier to bear."

Though he kept his eyes closed for several moments, Harry finally sighed again and nodded his head. "I suppose you both deserve to know. You've both been so great to me that I would hate to lose your support, but you deserve to know.'

"Harry, you'll never lose our support," Hermione chided gently.

Snorting, Harry pushed his elbows behind his back and returned to his sitting position on the edge of the bed. "Maybe you'll reconsider when you've heard what I learned today."

Then softly, hesitantly, Harry began to speak, and though his voice was clear and his attention was focused on them, his tone was detached, as though he feared their reaction. Though Hermione knew that she could never abandon her friend, as she listened with growing dismay, she began to understand why he would think such a thing. The prophecy was difficult enough to process, but the horcrux was beyond comprehension, and she felt tears sting her cheeks as Harry emotionlessly predicted that he would have to die in order to the rid the world of one Tom Riddle. Across from her and on Harry's other side, Hermione watched as Fleur openly wept, her Veela nature profoundly affected by the evil which inflicted her betrothed and, Hermione suspected, the boy with whom she was rapidly falling in love. The pure evil of such a vile creation was undoubtedly affecting her too, as it was the antithesis of Veela love. It was up to Hermione to maintain a level head and help her friends through this terrible ordeal.

As Harry's words fell silent, Hermione hugged him to her, mirroring Fleur's actions, and though her embrace was meant more to impart comfort than receive it, she had the distinct impression that Fleur was completely the opposite. Hermione moved to quickly assure him that his fears were completely unfounded.

"Now let's get one thing straight, Potter," Hermione snapped with a fierceness she had not known she possessed, "you need to get any hint of our leaving you because of this out of your head. You're stuck with us—both of us!"

"Of course!" Fleur echoed through her tears from Harry's other side. "We _are_ betrothed, you know."

"You could ask your father out of it. I'm sure he would understand and he and Sirius would agree to cancel it."

"Not on your life!" Fleur growled. "You're not getting rid of me that easily!"

"And besides," Hermione interjected, "I've always known you were a little crazy. Now I know why."

Her attempt at a joke fell a little flat, but it had the intended consequence of lightening the oppressive atmosphere in the room. Harry chuckled and for the first time began to hug Hermione back.

"Thanks to both of you," was Harry's quiet response.

"There is nothing to thank us for," Fleur firmly replied.

Hermione glanced over at her friend and noticed the determination on her face—now that the original shock had worn off, she had returned to the calm and rational person Hermione knew her to be. The sight helped Hermione find her own sense of resolve. They would beat this, no matter what it took.

"You need to be positive, Harry," Hermione comforted him. Dumbledore will find the solution—he's the greatest wizard in the world! If anyone can do it, he can!"

Harry was silent for several moments before he responded. "Thank you for being positive. I know that not all hope is lost, but I think I need to think about this and come to terms with it before I can put it in proper perspective. Thank you both for your support."

They assured him of their constancy immediately, and the three fell into quiet conversation. And though Hermione participated and asserted her opinions, she was also consumed with her own contemplations. She knew that her thoughts before he had seen Harry pass the room indicated that she had chosen to proceed and agree to Fleur's proposal. She now felt a certain sense of relief that she had finally made a decision.

But how could she do so now, with that new danger hanging over Harry's head? Surely he would be thinking of _anything_ but the state of his love life and the question of who he would be romancing. This would take some planning to do it properly. She would have to talk to Fleur about it.

* * *

_Updated 07/29/2013  
_


	35. Chapter 34 – Back to School

**Chapter 34 – Back to School**

After a—thankfully—uneventful conclusion to the holidays, it was time for the return to Hogwarts, and Harry was extremely grateful that he would be allowed to once again immerse himself in his studies and forget about his problems for a while. Or perhaps that was not completely accurate. With what he had learned over the previous week, Harry seriously doubted that there would ever be _any_ forgetting of the circumstances. The return to school did provide a nice distraction, however, along with the ability to lose himself in the familiar routines of classes, study, Quidditch practice, and the camaraderie and unconditional support of his friends.

As Harry sat in the Great Hall that evening after disembarking from the Express, he listened to his friends chatter back and forth, and for the first time in a week, felt his spirits lifting in response. It had been just what he needed, he reflected—not all of his life was doom and gloom, regardless how often it seemed that way.

In truth, Harry had not felt this way in several months—since Jean-Sebastian and Apolline had taken his guardianship and helped him during the trial. He had always been somewhat of a moody person, though that was likely due to his upbringing as a member of the Dursley household—one the other members generally wished to pretend never existed, if they could manage it. But the prophecy and especially the horcrux had shaken him, sending him back into that spiral of gloom, no matter how his friends had attempted to pull him from it. He had spent a considerable amount of time in the past few days studying his scar in the mirror. It was silly, he knew, but he could not help it, now that he knew what it contained. He had finally made himself stop doing it—it was not as though it would appear any different now that he knew the truth, anyway.

The simple fact was that Harry did not wish to be that person any more, and he recognized that at times, even after Jean-Sebastian had taken him in, that he had still slipped into his own habits of assuming every bad thing in the world would happen to him. He more than anything wanted to be happy and contented in his life, and he had spent the past day promising himself that he would—Voldemort's horcrux be damned!

Having so decided, he had appeared from his room that morning, forcing himself into a happier mood, and as the day went on in the company of his friends, he had spent less effort to make it so. Now, though the matter was still on his mind—it would never truly leave him as long as the horcrux remained—it was blunted and had lost its urgency. Professor Dumbledore was investigating the matter and if anyone could find an answer, Harry was certain he could. It was now nothing more than a waiting game.

The trip on the express had been quiet that morning. In fact, it had been extremely unusual in that Malfoy had for once kept his big mouth shut and had not invaded Harry's compartment looking to cause trouble. Harry could not remember a single trip on the Express where Malfoy _had not_ made his appearance. They had only seen the ferret once throughout the course of the entire journey, and even then it had only been an instant as they were boarding the train at King's Cross Station. He had met Harry's gaze for an instant with his usual sneer before Harry had entered the train. Not sure what to make of his sudden decision to back off, Harry vowed to watch him closely.

The only other thing of note to happen on the Express had been Daphne approaching him for a private talk. Harry had almost forgotten about her father's cryptic remarks the night of the ball, and when Hermione had mentioned that Daphne wanted to speak to him about something her father had said, he had had to think about it for several moments before he understood her meaning. The conversation, however, had not been anything he had expected.

* * *

"Thanks for meeting with me, Harry," Daphne said.

Indicating it was no trouble, Harry studied his friend, noting the fact that she appeared to be somewhat nervous, if her surreptitious glances at him and her slight fidgeting were any indication at all. Harry had never known the normally calm and unflappable girl to behave in such a manner, suggesting that whatever was troubling her was serious. He was not sure how he could help, but she was a friend, so he would do what he could.

"I wanted to explain something to you about what my father said at your betrothal ball," she indicated.

"I take it there's more to what he said than just getting to know me?"

"There is." Daphne's words were firm, but she still displayed the nervousness she had at the start. "In fact, it's a little complicated."

"I can do complicated," Harry replied with an encouraging grin. "Lay it on me."

Daphne's answering smile was brief before she once focused on whatever was troubling her. "How much do you know of the factions of the first Wizarding War?"

Confused by her seeming non sequitur, Harry answered as honestly as he could. "Well, I know that the Ministry fought against the Death Eaters, supported by Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, though the Order generally kept a low profile. I'm not certain I could say reliably who actually made up those factions, but I do know most of the obvious major players."

"That is all correct, Harry, but there was another faction." Daphne paused for a moment, before a wry smile came over her face. "Or perhaps it's more correct to say that there was a group who did not choose one side over the other. They came to be known as neutrals, though there really wasn't much in the way of organization or even affiliation between them. The neutrals, though they never sided, gained a reputation with both sides—the forces of light considered them with suspicion, like they clandestinely supported the Death Eaters—which was not entirely untrue in many respects—while the Death Eaters considered them to be faint of heart, unwilling to risk fighting for the Pureblood cause. Some of the more fanatical among them considered them to be closet Blood Traitors. And again, in many cases, the Death Eaters were not incorrect in their assumptions."

"Okay, let's back up a little, Daphne," Harry said holding up a hand. "So some of these neutrals did help the Death Eaters, and some supported the Ministry?"

"It's a little more complicated than that. Most were truly not interested at all in choosing sides, but to a certain extent sides were chosen regardless. Many paid people like _Lucius Malfoy_," she spat the name like a curse, "off in exchange for being left alone, while many _did_ support one side or another surreptitiously. It was a dangerous time—whole families were being wiped out by the Death Eaters, and many felt that this was the only way to keep their families safe. The Cornfoots, the Macmillans, and the Browns all fit into this category, just among those in our year at Hogwarts."

Harry nodded, indicating his understanding. Daphne appeared even more nervous now than she had earlier, but she sighed and then visibly plucked up her courage before she continued to speak. "The Greengrasses were also considered to be a neutral family, though we never paid any sort of tribute to keep the Death Eaters at bay. My family is rather important in the potions trade, specifically for supplying rare and expensive ingredients. The Death Eaters realized our importance and left us alone as long as we continued to sell needed ingredients to them. You could say that we supported the Death Eaters after a fashion, though Greengrasses by and large have never supported You-Know-Who's ideology."

"I understand, Daphne," Harry replied, trying to put the girl at ease. "Your family made a decision which kept them safe and they had to continue to supply Voldemort in order to do so. I assume that things have now changed?"

"They have," Daphne said with a sigh. "When we got home, my father appeared to be agitated and worried. He took me aside a few days after we returned, primarily due to my letters home which said that I had become your friend this past term."

As she stopped and looked at him expectantly, Harry thought on the situation for a moment. Clearly she wanted something from him—likely alliance or protection, or something of that nature. He was not truly in a position to protect _anyone_, being only fifteen years of age. However, those he associated with on a regular basis were powerful adults, who would be able to offer something more. And of course the support of the Boy-Who-Lived was not an insignificant thing, much though he found the thought of his fame, undeserved as he felt it was, distasteful.

"I presume this has to do with what Malfoy was trying to pull before we left school?" Harry asked. First things first, after all; Malfoy would only be an opening sally in Voldemort's offense—threaten the children as a warning to the adults. "Have the Death Eaters started pressuring your family?"

"In a word, yes," Daphne confirmed. "Malfoy is nothing more than a little prick who thinks he's king of the hill. We can handle him just fine. It's You-Know-Who and his ilk we can't handle."

"Tell me what happened, Daphne."

"It started back in the fall. Father told me that he had been approached by several high level Death Eaters—he does business with them from time to time. They began making hints about how their lord had returned and would expect more than just potions ingredients this time, and how father would have to choose a side. Oh, they said nothing in such an overt way, but the meaning was clear.

"But then during the hols another Death Eater came to our house." Daphne shuddered and turned away for a moment. "It was awful. He was more than a thug than anything, and he wasn't one I recognized as being one of You-Know-Who's typical front men. He was scruffy and unkempt and looked like he hadn't bathed in several years. We heard raised voices from my father's study, and the man stormed out a while later, leaving my father looking shaken. It was not precisely an ultimatum according to my father—though my guess is that it was intended as one—but he was told that his support for the Pureblood movement was required and that he would fall in line. The inference, of course, was that things would become very unpleasant for us if he didn't."

"And what did your father say?" Harry asked in a quiet tone. His upbringing with Dudley had instilled him with a healthy dislike for bullies of all colors, and that was precisely what this man—whoever he was—had done. In fact, if he thought of it in that manner, Voldemort himself was nothing more than a bully—a bully who could back his words up with deadly curses and the will to use them, but a bully still.

"He didn't respond one way or another. That's why the Death Eater raised his voice. It's clear that You-Know-Who tried to be subtle first, and as that didn't get immediate results, he's now resorted to threats.

"And what's more, apparently pressure has been put on many of the other families too. Some will undoubtedly choose to side with You-Know-Who, especially those who at least passively support his ideals anyway. Others may try to pay lip service to him to protect their families. My father has tried to get a read of his associates, but it's difficult to get a true idea of who will end up doing what."

"That's a really bad idea, Daphne," Harry interjected. "I don't think the Dark Mark allows that kind of attitude."

"Father has made the same argument," Daphne agreed.

They fell silent as the door behind them opened and a number of younger students—second and third years from their looks—moved through the area. The place they had chosen for their conversation was the compartment between cars and Harry was surprised they had not been interrupted before then.

Once they were alone again, Harry fixed his gaze on his friend. "I assume you want some sort of alliance or protection?"

"Yes," Daphne said, seeming a little relieved. She likely knew enough about him to know that he would not have mentioned something like that at all if he had not intended to go through with it.

"I should remind you that I'm only fifteen," Harry said with a wink of his eye. "I'm not sure I really have the means to protect anyone."

Daphne merely rolled her eyes. "A fifteen-year-old who is also the Boy-Who-Lived. Besides, you have the Delacours and Blacks as guardians, you're Dumbledore's protégé, and even the Weasley name, while not politically powerful, is old and respected, though the current head is considered to be somewhat eccentric. Your godfather especially is shaking things up. The resources of the Black family—a family steeped in centuries of darkness—suddenly turned to the support of the light is not an insignificant matter."

"I suppose it isn't," was Harry's absent reply. "So I presume that your father wants to speak to me about a possible alliance?"

"Essentially, though he's not the only one," Daphne replied. "There are a group of neutrals—I'm not sure who is involved, to be honest—who don't want to get pulled into You-Know-Who's fight, but are afraid that they will be left defenseless if they defy him openly without protecting themselves. If we can negotiate an alliance, they will throw their support in against Death Eaters in exchange for protection."

"Will they openly oppose him?" Harry asked bluntly. "Will they actually take part in any action against him?"

"I can't say." Daphne chewed her lip nervously, clearly agitated at the thought that this may affect the level of support she could gain for her family. "I think my parents might if it was required, but I should tell you that is not exactly their strength."

Harry smiled at her. "Don't worry about it. I doubt Dumbledore would turn you away because you're not very good fighters."

"I'll have you know that _I_ am a _very good_ fighter!" Daphne replied, raising her nose in the air in a snooty manner.

Laughing, Harry shook his head. "It will be fine. I think it would be better if Dumbledore and J.S. spoke directly with your father—they'll understand the finer points of negotiating an alliance like this. I'll speak to Dumbledore and arrange it when we get to school."

Again Daphne appeared nervous, as she fidgeted with the cuff of her shirt. She seemed to gather herself and take a deep breath before she peered up into Harry's eyes.

"We could formalize the alliance and bind us together more firmly, you know. My father would offer a marriage contract if you need a more substantial gesture in order to trust us."

Though Harry was completely shocked at her sudden suggestion, he thought he managed his reaction rather admirably as he only raised an eyebrow at her. Inside, however, his mind was a maelstrom of furious thoughts. He had only actually known the girl for less than two months, and now she was proposing a marriage contract. Of course, he'd not known Fleur for much longer—and had actually spent less time in her company—before finding himself in a contract with her. Why should Daphne be any different?

"You _do_ know I'm already bound under a marriage contract, right?" Though he knew that she knew he was, it seemed like a sensible way to deflect, and perhaps gain a little more information from her.

Unfortunately, in this matter he was to be disappointed, as Daphne merely rolled her eyes before replying with some exasperation, "Of course I know. Don't be obtuse, Harry—I know you are aware of the possibility of having more than one wife. Fleur and Hermione have almost hit you over the head with it."

Harry smiled wryly—she presumed far too much when it came to the actions of his two closest friends. Harry knew that though there had been signs before he had inadvertently overheard their conversation, they had not been _that_ blatant. As she had deflected his parry, Harry decided that it was best to go for the truth of the matter.

"I do know that. What I don't know is whether it's something that _you _want."

Daphne sighed and leaned back against the door, her eyes studying his face. "I will admit that I don't really know you and that makes me hesitate. But I _do_ know you—and know _of_ you—well enough to know that you would make a good husband, and that I'd never be mistreated. My father would agree if he could be assured of that."

"But that's not what _you_ want."

"I don't know for certain," Daphne admitted. "Like I said, I like you well enough, but as for the rest? We've only known each other for two months or so. Normally I wouldn't be this forward, but I'll do it if it will help my family."

The firm manner in which she stated her reason reassured Harry that while she was not suggesting it because she felt something for him, at least she was doing it with good intentions. It also clarified things for Harry.

"We don't need to go that far," Harry said firmly. "I think that if you trust me enough to know that I would treat you well in marriage, you can trust me to do everything I can to protect you and your family. There's no need for you to offer yourself like that—I'd prefer to know that you want something between us because _you_ want it, not because of some alliance."

Tilting her head to the side, Daphne peered at him with an unreadable expression on her face. "You are a rare breed, Harry. A lot of boys would have jumped at the chance. I'm pretty sure that I'm not unattractive."

"No you're not," Harry agreed with a grin. "But I don't think it's a necessary requirement to create an alliance between us. Let's not rush into anything. If you feel you'd like to explore it further _for yourself_, we can revisit it then. For now, I have enough keeping up with _one_ fiancée, never mind having to worry about a second. Let's think about this some more before we jump in head first."

"Agreed," Daphne replied with a bright smile.

* * *

Even now more than six hours later, Harry could hardly believe that she had suggested a marriage contract with him. To be honest, he was not certain how he felt about it. Daphne was attractive—that much even a blind man could see—but this marrying for nothing more than political expedience did not seem right to him. Sure he already had such a betrothal in place, but he was very glad that he seemed to be approaching a union of minds and hearts with Fleur. Much better that than simply a cold union for other reasons. He was certain that Fleur would not be happy in such an arrangement, and he suspected that he would not either.

Across the room out of the corner of his eye, he could see Daphne sitting beside Tracey, both with their backs to him, the light of the hall highlighting her dark hair. As he had thought before, she certainly was attractive, and given the right chance, he though he could easily develop feelings for her. But what about Fleur and his growing feelings for her? And what about Hermione who had already admitted to having feelings for him? Two women seemed a little much—and now he was considering a third? At that moment, Harry wished for a little more normality in the Wizarding world. Then maybe he would not have to deal with all of this.

As he looked toward Daphne again, Harry realized that someone else was apparently watching the beautiful girl. A little to her right, Malfoy was sitting perhaps fifteen feet away from them on the other side of the table. The expression he was directing at them—or more especially at Daphne, Harry thought—was sour and almost petulant. Underneath it, however, Harry thought he could detect a hint of possessiveness, the way he watched her like a hawk and almost seemed to lean forward to hear what she was saying. Malfoy would bear watching—Daphne may not be betrothed to Harry, but he would be certain to put Malfoy in his place if the little creep tried anything.

At that point Harry's thoughts were broken when the Headmaster stood at the head table and motioned the gathering for silence. To the man's side there was still an empty chair—no doubt it was reserved for the new Defense Professor, who still had not been announced. Harry was curious; he expected the announcement was imminent.

"Thank you all, and welcome back to Hogwarts," Dumbledore exclaimed in his usual flamboyant style. "Usually, I leave the announcements for the opening feast of the year, but this year we have an unusual occurrence. No doubt you are all waiting to learn the identity of your new professor, and I will not keep you waiting."

He gazed out over the room theatrically, and smiling—Harry fancied that the Headmaster was looking directly at him—he raised his hand and directed it to the anteroom where the champions had gathered following the announcement of the participants of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

"Please welcome your new Defense Professor, Sirius Black!"

Torn between disbelief and delight, Harry watched as Sirius stepped into the Great Hall and grinned at the assembled students while bowing impudently. His reception was, as was to be expected, somewhat lukewarm—from what Harry could see, the Gryffindor table was largely supportive and enthusiastic, while Slytherin was, of course, the opposite. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were mixed, with those friendly to Harry generally supportive, while others were less so. Sirius, in keeping with the Marauder spirit, acted as though he had been greeted with the kind of cheers reserved for Merlin himself, bowing and grinning as he made his way up to the head table.

Once there, he shook hands with Dumbledore and took his place at the table. Only then did he look directly at Harry, and with deliberate good humor, flipped him an impudent salute, laughing at what Harry's incredulous—and likely comical—expression.

"That… that cheeky bugger!" Harry exclaimed to his friends. "He knew he was coming to Hogwarts, but he didn't tell us. He pranked us!"

Sitting by his side, Fleur nodded her head and with a devious look in her eye, said, "Well then, we should prank him back. Isn't that a Marauders' code or something?"

"Did someone say something about a prank?" one of the twins asked from further down the table.

"Yes, do tell," chimed in the other.

Harry smirked at them. "I think we might put your talents to use, gentlemen. Padfoot of the Marauders has just pranked us. Honor demands we return the favor."

The twin Weasleys looked at each other and laughed, but it was Ron who responded. "Well, we should get to it, don't you think?"

Laughing, Harry agreed, and he leaned forward, beginning to discuss the situation earnestly with his nearby friends. During the course of their discussions, Harry glanced up at the head table and smirked at Sirius, and his godfather, no doubt knowing that they were planning retribution, merely grinned back at him and gave him the thumbs up.

However, something else caught Harry's attention. Sitting a ways down on the other side of Dumbledore from Sirius, Snape sat glaring down at the assembly, with an expression which was more than usually poisonous. When he noticed Harry watching him, his express became even blacker. Their eyes only met for a moment, but Harry got the distinct impression that Snape would have incinerated him on the spot, had he had the power to do so. It was only an instant and then Snape turned to one of the professors beside him and began to converse with her, as though trying to deny Harry's very existence.

"What's _his_ problem?" Hermione asked from his side.

He turned to look at her. "You noticed it too?"

"Noticed what?" Fleur asked.

"Just Snape looking fouler then I've ever seen him before."

Almost as one, everyone nearby turned to look at the potions master who, if he noticed their scrutiny, ignored them in favor of his conversation.

"Does Snape really need a reason to look at you like that?" Ron asked. "He's probably just got indigestion or something.

Laughing, Harry shrugged the unpleasant man's attitude off. They had some serious pranking to do, and Harry was not about to allow Snape to affect his good mood.

* * *

Their revenge for Sirius's prank took shape the following morning. Those involved—namely Harry, Hermione, Fleur, Ron, and the Weasley twins—made certain to arrive at breakfast early so that they could see the show. As it turned out, they did not have long to wait as Sirius sauntered into the hall a few moments after they had taken their seats. He made his way between the benches, stopping to have a few words with Harry before he smiled and indicated that he was looking forward to seeing all the fifth years in Defense later that afternoon. He then turned and made his way to the staff table.

Harry and his friends watched Sirius like hawks as he sat down and began to dish himself some food from the nearby platters. He then stopped and, after glancing up at Harry, exaggeratedly cast a detection spell of some kind on his food. He waved his wand again, with a sly glance up at Harry, before picking up his fork and digging in to his meal.

The effects were instantaneous. The moment fork touched his lips, his skin turned a brilliant shade of blue with white and black bands on his upper cheeks. From behind his head a brilliant plumage of blue and green feathers sprouted, surrounding his head and stretching out a meter or more in each direction. He looked absurd, especially with the comical expression of surprise which instantly spread over his features. Shock quickly turned to a sly grin, however, and he excused himself—the Headmaster merely watched him with gleaming eyes—and stood up. He made his way toward Harry and his friends, though he did have to turn himself sideways in several places to be able to squeeze his feathers through the narrow pathways.

By this time the entire hall had noticed his predicament and had begun to laugh, but Sirius took their laughter with no sense of embarrassment—instead, ever the showman, he bowed to all and sundry and continued to make his way toward Harry and his friends.

"Nice plumage, Sirius," Harry said as he arrived, prompting further gales of laughter from those who were close enough to hear his quip.

"Well, yes," Sirius said, playing it up by stroking some of his feathers. "But I was wondering—you and your cohorts wouldn't know anything about this, would you?"

"Us?" one of the twins demanded. "Why would we know anything?"

"Call it an inspired guess," Sirius replied in a droll tone. "In fact, if I'm not very much mistaken, I believe that even our straitlaced Hermione was involved. Quite the accomplishment, I must say."

Hermione turned innocent eyes on the new, feathered, Defense Professor. "I can assure you, professor, that I was not involved at all." She frowned and began chewing on her lip, seemingly thinking hard about something. "I may have mentioned how I _would_ go about getting revenge, if I were so inclined, but it's not my fault if someone used my random musings to actually do so."

"Nice," Sirius replied with a grin. "The only thing I can't understand is how you managed to do it. I figured you might try something like this, after I showed up… unexpectedly last night, so I used a detection spell on my food. I did notice something and dispelled it, but I've still ended up with feathers." The group snickered, but Sirius ignored them. "Would any of you know how it was accomplished?"

A chorus of "no" met his query, though Harry did smirk at him instead. "Well, if _I_ was planning a prank—not to say I had anything to do with your… predicament—I don't think I'd use anything so obvious as the food—especially when one of the other professors might take food from the platter. Did you try detecting anything else in the area? Like maybe your fork? You never know what might be contaminated."

Sirius let out a great guffaw. "Well, I admit it then—I've been had."

"Sure looks that way," Harry said smugly. "I guess whoever pranked you thought that since you acted like a peacock last night, that you should become one."

"You remind me more of James every day, Harry," Sirius said, while laying one hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry had to blink back a few tears at such a pronouncement and he settled for grinning broadly at his godfather.

Turning, Sirius started back toward the head table, but he stopped after a few steps and looked back at Harry and his friends. "Can I assume that we are even for my little prank of not telling you I would be teaching here?"

Harry exchanged looks with all of his friends. "What? Is the mighty Padfoot of the Marauders overmatched by a few amateurs?"

"No," was Sirius's reply. "I'll engage in a prank war until the unicorns come home if you like. But I'm supposed to be a professor now, and Dumbledore would likely consider it bad form if I did. It's probably something about showing the proper example to the students, though personally, I think this place could do with a little more humor."

"Then you're safe from us," Harry replied.

"We'd never do anything to our great and noble Defense Professor," added one of the twins.

"Of course not," chimed in the other. "And don't worry about the plumage. These things usually wear off in a short time. Say, by the end of breakfast."

"Very well," Sirius replied with a broad grin. "And by the way—five points _to _Gryffindor for providing the morning's amusement for the entire school."

With that, Sirius returned to the head table and sat next to the Headmaster. He continued on with his breakfast with an air of studied nonchalance, as though nothing was out of place. The Headmaster sported a smile of his own, and his eyes twinkled merrily, though he appeared to say nothing to Sirius about the prank.

"Mischief managed," Harry said, looking at his friends, and they all burst out laughing in response. They finished their meal quickly and then made their way from the hall, heading toward Gryffindor tower to get their supplies for the day's classes. Once out in the entrance hallway, Harry looked around and seeing no one, said, "Dobby."

With a pop, a small house-elf appeared next to him, bouncing up and down excitedly on his heels. "Yes, Master Harry Potter, Sir!"

"Thank you Dobby, you did great!"

"Dobby dids well?"

"Perfect. You placed the fork in exactly the right place. Thank you for your help."

"Dobby is beings very happy to be helping the great Master Harry Potter sir prank his dogfather."

And with that, the excitable house-elf popped away, and the friends continued on their way, laughing as they went.

* * *

After suffering through a mind-numbingly boring history class—not that it would ever be different with Binns teaching the class—Harry and his fifth year friends made their way to the dungeons and the first potions class of the year. Though Snape's behavior had almost been proper for most of the previous term, his poisonous expression from the previous night's feast seemed to belie his newly discovered tolerance for Harry and, indeed, anyone from Gryffindor. Within moments of his arrival in class, Harry suspicions were confirmed; it appeared that the kinder, gentler Snape was a thing of the past.

It started when he stalked into the classroom, his face a mask of displeasure, cloak billowing behind him, and flicked his wand at the blackboard, causing a set of instructions to appear. "There are your instructions," he barked. "Begin now!"

Even though he was half expecting it, Harry was surprised at the professor's sudden change in demeanor and hesitated. Apparently, that was enough to earn—or perhaps more accurately, deepen—Snape's ire. "What, you can't follow simple instructions, Potter?" he snarled. "Five points from Gryffindor for being an obtuse dunderhead. Now move!"

Harry glared at the man with equal ferocity, but he did not move immediately. Instead he stood with an exaggerated slowness, and turned toward the ingredients cabinet. Before he made his way there, he turned back to Snape and said in the most disparaging voice he could muster, "I guess a leopard can't change its spots, can it?"

Snape's face spasmed with fury. "A further five points for disrespecting a professor."

"That's kind of hard, when I didn't have any respect for you in the first place," Harry muttered. By now Snape's face was almost turning purple in his rage, but when he did not immediately speak, Harry addressed him again. "Go ahead and take points," he said dismissively. "Take a thousand for all I care. It doesn't matter, as I'll just appeal them."

"Your arrogance seems to be making a full return, Potter."

"As does your petulance."

"Get to work before I expel you from my classroom!"

Shrugging, Harry turned and walked to the cabinet. Hermione had already retrieved his ingredients and, after thanking her for her help, returned with her to their tables to begin preparing to brew their potions.

Thus began what ended up being the most uncomfortable potions class that Harry had ever attended, which was saying quite a lot, considering the times he had spent in this classroom. Snape hovered about the Gryffindors and Harry in particular, and nothing seemed to be beyond his ability to criticize. He found fault with everything Harry did, not limited to how he chopped his ingredients, the flame he set to his cauldron, and even the motions he used to add the potion taking shape.

Keeping his cool with difficulty, Harry chose the simple expedient of ignoring the man, concentrating instead upon what he was doing. It did not seem to matter—though he expounded upon Harry's mistakes with vigor, Snape never bothered to actually correct what Harry was doing, and seemed not to notice that nothing he said made Harry alter his methods in any way. He was obviously angry about something, but given how Harry had not exchanged two words with the man since the last potions class the previous year, he was at a loss to explain exactly what he had done to arouse Snape's ire. And given the effort he put into ignoring Snape's criticisms, ignoring Malfoy's gleeful jabs was nothing more than child's play.

Through it all Harry was grateful for the willingness of his friends to back him over Snape's unjustified and unwarranted attacks. More than once he was required to intervene when he felt that one of his friends was about to take Snape to task for his behavior. Since he had not done anything to warrant Snape's persecution, he knew he could get Dumbledore to reverse the man's decrees with little difficulty; getting his friends off for any disrespect—deserved or not—would be more difficult. Surprisingly, it was the Slytherin girls who seemed to be the most affronted over Snape's persecution, though Ron's scowls and Hermione's affronted glares bespoke their displeasure as well. It seemed that Daphne was as protective of him as though a betrothal did exist, as he had had to pull her aside and ask her not to say anything before she was able to hold her disgust for the potions master in check. It would not do for Snape to go after members of his own house; they had to put up with the man as their head of house—at least Harry did not have to carry _that_ particular cross.

At the end of the class, Harry was surprised when he actually received an Exceeds for his potion, given how Snape had criticized him throughout the lesson. He guessed that the punishment for a mis-graded potion would be much more severe than simply taking points away spitefully.

It was a relieved Harry who stepped from the classroom and began making his way toward the Great Hall for lunch, his friends following in his wake.

"I can't believe him!" Daphne fumed as they walked. "I don't know how you've put up with him for this long, Harry. I'd have hexed him to Hogsmeade and back by now!"

"Snape's not that bad," Harry replied with a mischievous grin. "He's nothing to Dudley—at least Dumbledore's got Snape neutered."

A range of guffaws broke out at that comment, though Daphne remained unimpressed. "_That_ did _not_ look neutered to me."

"Don't worry, Daphne," Harry reassured her. "Dumbledore will reverse the points, scold Snape again, and everything will likely be back to normal by next potions class."

"I don't know why Dumbledore even puts up with the git," Ron grumbled. "He's pants as a teacher, and has all the personality of a starving nundu."

"I couldn't tell you, Ron," Harry commiserated. "But until Dumbledore decides to sack him, we're stuck with him."

Though he was sanguine about the whole thing on the outside, Harry was anything but on the inside. He had—foolishly, it appeared—thought that the worst of the problems with Snape were behind him, leaving him with one less thing to worry about. And while that problem had apparently resurfaced, Harry was not about to allow it to continue.

Unfortunately, once he had entered the hall, he looked up to the head table to see that Dumbledore was not there, as he would usually be at lunch. A quick query later, and he found that the Headmaster was away dealing with ICW business and was not expected to return until Thursday. It was annoying, but Harry figured that he would have to put up with the greasy bat until Dumbledore returned.

* * *

Sirius's first day as a professor at Hogwarts was turning out to be a very enjoyable experience, an interesting occurrence, considering his history of making life difficult for the fraternity he had just joined. In fact, Sirius would have given much to see the look on James's face, had he seen Sirius now as a respectable—the very thought made Sirius snicker—professor and a compass for the minds of young children. Moony's snort of laughter when _he_ had heard of Sirius's new job would likely have been echoed to an even greater degree by James. Even the thought that the ever-immature Padfoot would be placed in a position of authority seemed ludicrous even now!

The funny thing was that Sirius found himself enjoying the experience very much. Though he imagined that he would soon become bored, Sirius thought that he could continue to do this for some time yet—at least, perhaps, until Harry got his NEWTs, for example. It would give him a chance to remain closer to Harry, and still pursue other interests once Harry left school. The more he thought about it, the better the plan seemed. Of course, this was all contingent on whether Dumbledore wanted him to return—likely, considering the difficulty the Headmaster had had retaining Defense professors.

The children were strangely easy with him, considering his reputation and the rather lukewarm welcome he had been given the previous evening. He attributed it completely to the prank Harry and his friends had hit him with that morning—it was difficult to be afraid of someone who sprouted peacock feathers from the back of his head. In that, Sirius considered the friends' actions to be inspired and happily for him, made it easier to work with the children.

Another assisting factor had been the fact that his first class on Monday had been with the sixth years—the lesser number of sixth years actually taking defense meant that the houses were all combined into one class—and as they were an older age group, they were not as likely to be as intimidated by the mere sight of him as a group of firsties would have been. All in all, it was a fortunate bit of scheduling, in Sirius's opinion.

Thus, his classes had been mostly sedate affairs, with him trying to get a feel for the students, while they, in turn, did the same with him. Harry's combined Gryffindor and Hufflepuff class had been a joy to teach—Sirius was aware that Harry was considered somewhat of a prodigy in Defense, but the intelligence and skill of his godson was still surprising regardless of how he'd heard of—and witnessed—Harry's prowess.

And he had to admit that those of Harry's friends who he knew were members of his Defense club also impressed him, though whether that was due to the fact that Harry was teaching them, or because he had purposefully chosen the best, Sirius was not certain. Knowing his godson, Sirius suspected the former, but until he witnessed them in action, he could not be certain. Fortunately, however, it appeared that he would have the chance to observe them, as Harry had invited him to sit in on the next club meeting.

* * *

The class was beginning to break up after Sirius dismissed them, and Sirius was at his desk putting away some papers when Harry approached him, with Hermione in tow.

"Great class, Sirius!" he enthused.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," Sirius replied with a grin. "I'm sort of new to this teaching thing, and I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"You're doing fine," Hermione assured him with a smile.

"Yeah, well it's not like you have very big shoes to fill. Umbridge wasn't exactly the world's premier expert on the subject." Harry's grin turned sly. "In fact, other than Moony, I'd say you'd have to work pretty hard to be _worse_ than the Defense professors we've had around here."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence again, cub," was Sirius's sarcastic reply. It was good to banter with Harry, Sirius decided—it was at times like these that the son most reminded him of the father. And this was how James would have wanted to be remembered—with an emphasis on the good, rather than an obsession with the fact that he was no longer with them.

"No problem, Paddy." The grin was becoming a full blown smirk by now. "Think of the bright side; you can be less than competent in teaching the class, and the students will all still think that you're almost the best they ever had!"

"All right, you," Sirius said, stifling a laugh, "I think you had better run off to dinner before you give me a complex!"

"Sure thing, Sirius," Harry responded, the smirk never leaving his face. "Before we go we wanted to invite you to the next club meeting. I think you could help us, being the Defense Professor, and all."

"I'd like that, Harry," Sirius replied, feeling a little choked up.

"Good. We'll expect you on Wednesday then."

The two teens then wished Sirius good bye and turned to make their way from the room. It was apparent, however, that Harry was his father's son, as he was unable to leave without making one last mischievous comment.

"By the way—I'm glad you've removed the feathers from your wardrobe. They are so last year, after all, and you want to keep up on fashion!"

* * *

Harry was definitely becoming a cheeky bugger, and for that Sirius was grateful. He had been too moody—too somber—when Sirius had first met him, and James would never have wanted his son to be that way. James had been carefree and playful at Harry's age, and no doubt Harry would have been the same way had he grown up with James as a father. It fell to Sirius to ensure that from this point forward, that Harry was allowed to be as happy-go-lucky as the situation would allow him to be, and Sirius meant to see that that was the case.

So he continued throughout that first day of teaching, and though he often felt himself struggling to explain the material he was trying to teach in an easy to understand manner, there were very few bumps along the road. The only true event of note happened on the Tuesday of the week when he had his first class with the combined Ravenclaw and Slytherin fifth years.

Now, it must be said that Sirius had never had much affection for most of his relations, and his cousins were no different, with the exception of Andromeda, who had married a Muggleborn and subsequently been blasted from the family tree. Narcissa had been much like her name suggested as a young girl, and she had only gotten worse with age. And of Bellatrix, the less said the better.

Thus, it was not a big surprise that given his feelings about the mother—and the father, of course, though he was an altogether different story—that Sirius held Draco Malfoy in extremely low esteem. The stories from Harry about their confrontations over the years had certainly not helped, nor had the lad's manners on the occasions when he had been able to witness them. His behavior that first Defense class, therefore, was not a surprise, though it certainly did an admirable job of sinking his opinion of the little git even further than it already was.

Sirius had started each class with a rote speech which he had designed himself, with only minor changes for the year group he was teaching, in deference to the material which they would be studying. He had to admit that he was quite proud of his statements, as he felt that they were both succinct, and explained to the students exactly how he would conduct his class.

"Now, I would like you all to know that you can approach me for anything, whether it's help or suggestions I can use to more effectively teach you all," Sirius concluded his opening statements. "Though I was a Gryffindor when I attended Hogwarts, I mean to treat all of you equally, regardless of your house affiliation. I will not hesitate to praise anyone who deserves it, or punish anyone making trouble. You are all equal to me."

"Of course that rule does not apply to _all_," a drawling voice spoke just loud enough to be heard throughout the room.

Looking up, Sirius noted the sneer on the face of his cousin's son, and knew in an instant it was the Pureblood who had spoken. His closest cronies were all snickering at his statement, though the others did not seem to be following his lead. Many of them were involved with Harry, after all, and would not likely find the blond's antics to be amusing.

"I'm sorry, can you clarify your comments, Mr. Malfoy?"

Malfoy seemed to be caught by surprise—which was in itself a surprise, considering the volume by which the comment had been voiced—but Draco quickly recovered and plastered his sneer back on his face.

"I merely said that as his godfather and with your being a blood traitor, that Potter will undoubtedly get a free pass, much as he does from every other teacher in this school."

"And you would know all about free passes, wouldn't you, Mr. Malfoy? Considering what I've heard about your head of house's class, I'd say you're pretty familiar with preferential treatment.

"Regardless," he continued above the noise which had arisen—many were obviously surprised he would call out Malfoy in such a blatant manner, "I reiterate my comments—you will all be treated equally. Act as you should in my class, and you will have no trouble with me."

At the end of the class, Sirius asked Malfoy to stay behind, ignoring the grins that broke out on the faces of most of those who did not hold much fondness for the Pureblood. Once the rest of the class had filed from the room, he directed a withering glare at the boy and proceeded to tell him exactly what he thought of him.

"You may think that the world owes you something, but personally, I'm not impressed. Though we are related by blood, I consider you to be an exact image of your Death Eater father, Malfoy."

Draco flushed with anger. "My father is a great man!"

"Only in his own dreams," was Sirius's cutting reply. "In any case, though I strongly suspect you're following in his footsteps, I will treat you the same way I treat everyone else in this class. Keep your mouth shut and your mind on your work, and you and I will have no problems. Understood?"

Jaw flexing in his anger, Malfoy, nevertheless did not deign to respond. Instead he lifted his nose haughtily and said, "May I be excused now, _professor?_"

A tight nod was Sirius's only response, at which the blond turned on his heel and strode away. He was not, however, able to leave the room without a parting shot, "I'd enjoy your time as Lord Black, as I suspect you will not hold the title for long."

Sirius laughed at him. "Leaving you to inherit, I suppose you assume? Don't worry, little Dracky-poo; even if I snuff it, I've ensured that you will never be Lord Black. Now move along before I have you in detention."

With a superior sniff, Draco turned on his heel and exited the classroom. Sirius shook his head and firmly pushed the little twit from his mind. He had other things to consider after all. Things were certainly looking up. He was fully recovered—or as fully recovered as he would ever be—from his stay at Chateau Azkaban, had a good job occupying his time, and was near his godson as a bonus. All was not perfect in the world, but it was a hell of a lot better than it had been even six months ago. Sirius meant to enjoy his time to the fullest extent.

* * *

That Tuesday, after dinner, Fleur led her two friends from the Great Hall and up a few levels toward a small, unused classroom which had been allowed for their use. It was time for her first Occlumency lesson and Fleur was determined to help Harry cut off his unfortunate connection with Voldemort, and end the man's direct influence in her betrothed's life.

This did not mean that Fleur was not worried about her ability to train him, of course. Fleur herself had been practicing Occlumency for some time now, but she still did not consider herself to be an expert in any way. In fact, she was not at all certain that she could instruct him in a coherent and effective manner. On the other hand, she was aware that the only other choice was one Professor Snape—with whom Harry shared a mutual and overt level of antagonism—and she knew that she had to succeed. Perhaps it would have been better for Dumbledore to have waited until Harry's mind was protected before imparting the information he had to the young man, but Fleur could not but be happy that they had. He deserved to know, and she herself had demanded that her father not hold back.

Of course, this made the urgency all that much greater. Should Voldemort discover the connection, he would almost certainly use it, and though he had no real reason to suspect that Harry was aware of the contents of the prophecy, he also had no reason to think that Harry was not. If they were diligent in the instruction and practice, then Harry's mind should be reasonably well protected against a remote attack, though Voldemort would almost certainly overwhelm him if they were ever in close proximity. At least that was what they were basing their hopes on. It was not as though there was a lot of precedent for the kind of connection Harry shared with Voldemort, after all. A lot of it was guesswork, with no real assurance that their course was correct.

The classroom had clearly not been used in some time. Dust liberally coated the floor and every available surface, and the furniture appeared to be more antiquated than that which was available in the classrooms which were in use. The simple act of walking into the room caused such a disturbance that within a moment all three were sneezing vigorously in response. A few cleaning spells later and the room looked almost presentable—certainly enough for their needs, in any case.

They arranged three chairs facing each other and after Fleur had taken her seat, she smiled at her two companions and began—a little nervously, to be honest—to explain exactly what they were trying to accomplish.

"So, it appears that my task is to teach you to protect your mind. Do either of you have any notion as to what Occlumency is?"

"I tried looking it up," Hermione began, blushing when Fleur exchanged an amused look with Harry. "There doesn't seem to be a lot of information available on the subject."

"That's because there isn't," Fleur confirmed. "Unfortunately, the Ministry considers Legilimency to be an invasion of privacy, and therefore tries to remove all references to the mind arts."

"Well that's stupid," said Hermione, clearly upset that any kind of knowledge was being suppressed. "I mean, why wouldn't they outlaw Legilimency and teach Occlumency so that people may protect themselves?"

"No one could accuse the Ministry of being logical," Harry responded wryly. "Not if Fudge is an example."

"That is true," said Fleur with a sigh, "but unfortunately Britain is not the only Ministry to take such a view. The mind arts are regarded much the same way over much of the Wizarding world."

"Then how do you know Occlumency?"

"My father taught me," Fleur replied. "You must understand that Occlumency is discouraged, not prohibited. For that matter, Legilimency is not against the law either, but its use is heavily restricted, and it is not taught.

"In any case, I think we should concentrate on the task at hand." Fleur paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "There is not a lot of information on Occlumency, it is true, but what there is, is most likely somewhat garbled and inaccurate. First, Occlumency has nothing to do with shields or the like, so you may dismiss any thoughts of Star Trek from your mind."

At her companions' twin looks of surprise, Fleur chuckled. "You know that the Delacours are not ignorant of the Muggle world. I've seen a Star Trek movie or two in the theater, and know something about its history."

Hermione was frowning, and her response ignored any thoughts of movies. "The term 'occlude' would suggest some sort of barrier."

"It does, but it's actually a bit of a misnomer. The art of Occlumency is the art of concealing your mind from intrusion, and the skill of forcing someone out when they've made an intrusion."

"Those seem like two different skills altogether," Hermione observed.

"They are," Fleur agreed. "We will not spend as much time on expelling an attacker as we will on concealing yourself. I believe that the ability to conceal yourself will be the most important for you, Harry, as this connection you have with Voldemort is not something usual. It will be better for you if he follows the link between you and finds nothing at the end of it, than to have to expel him from your mind all the time, which takes willpower and leaves you drained.

"However, to be able to hide yourself," Fleur continued after she paused for a moment, "you need to understand what is in your mind. The first thing you need to know is that a Legilimens uses your eyes to gain entrance to your thoughts, as the eyes are like windows to the mind."

"So, given what you said, you hide your inner thoughts so that even if he tries to enter through your eyes, he can't find anything," Harry surmised.

"That is correct," Fleur said with a smile at her betrothed. "And like I said, you need to understand the contents of your mind in order to protect yourself. Our first lessons will focus on doing an… inventory of your memories, for want of a better term, so that you are familiar what's in your mind."

Harry was frowning. "But that seems a little dumb. I know what's in my mind."

"Do you?" Fleur challenged. "How many things have you forgotten over the years, and how many things are just strewn about haphazardly in your head?"

"How much will this help us remember?" Hermione asked.

"Not everything," Fleur replied. "However, it will help you to recall memories that you've forgotten, and will help you retain information in the future. Those are benefits.

"Once we've done some housecleaning, then we'll concentrate upon creating a mindscape, which is what you hide your thoughts behind. Most people just choose a black void for their mindscape, but some more adventurous people will choose other things—a mountain meadow, a windowless and doorless room, or the like. It doesn't matter what you use, as long as there is no way for an intruder to find your true thoughts once he gains access."

"What's yours?" Harry asked.

"I use my favorite clearing close to Chateau Delacour. It's the place I used to play as a girl, and one of my favorite places in the world."

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other, and Fleur got the impression that they had both already decided what they would use, and probably had an inkling of what the other had thought of. They were so close and in tune—Fleur felt a surge of satisfaction that her suppositions had proven correct. Now if she could just get them both to see it.

"So if you create this mindscape, then no one can get through to your thoughts?" Harry asked.

"That's the goal," Fleur affirmed. "But you must remember that no mindscape is perfect, just like no person is perfect. It takes some time to become truly proficient. An intruder will attempt to force his way past your mindscape to your thoughts behind. As you become more practiced at Occlumency, you will be able to prevent them from doing that. Enough practice, and eventually you will be able to deny all but the most powerful Legilimens. The curve is quite steep at the beginning, so we'll be able to close off your connection very quickly. You will then only be in danger if you are in the same room as your attacker."

Gazing at her earnestly, Harry nodded. "Let's get to it then."

* * *

_Updated 07/29/2013  
_


	36. Chapter 35 – Renewing Acquaintances

**Chapter 35 – Renewing Acquaintances**

"Welcome back, everyone," Harry said with a smile, looking out at the assembled club members. "I hope you all spent some time practicing over the holidays, because things are going to get more intense from here."

He paused a moment, considering the club. He fancied he could almost pick out those who were completely serious from those who were looking on this more as a lark, and the division was not necessarily what he would have thought, while some were exactly as he would have predicted. Cormac McLaggen, for example, was much as Harry would have expected, spending more time chatting up the girls—even Hermione to a certain extent, though she barely tolerated him—than actually paying attention or trying to improve his defense skills. On the other end of the spectrum, Lavender Brown, though she could not quite leave her gossiping and silliness behind, did a credible job of paying attention and working more diligently than he would have expected.

"Today we're going to start something new," Harry continued, "something which will likely take everyone in this room a while to master. I want to cover the basics today. Once you all understand _how_ it's done, then we can take a little time to practice each meeting."

"Harry, you're scaring us," Dean spoke up in a lighthearted voice. "What's so difficult and why is it so important that we learn it?"

"What's so important," Harry replied with a grin, "is the Patronus Charm."

As he watched the reactions of the club, he saw a mix of responses, with perhaps about half of those present understanding to what he was referring, while the rest betrayed no sign whatsoever of any recognition. Among those who did know, some appeared to be downright skeptical.

"Oh come on, Potter," Cormac jeered, "are you trying to tell us that _you_ can cast a Patronus?"

Rather than respond, Harry just rolled his eyes and called up the memory of giving Fleur the promise ring just before their betrothal ball. He drew his wand with a flourish and brandishing it exclaimed, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

The brilliant specter of his patronus burst from his wand and immediately coalesced into the shape of the familiar stag, and began prancing around the room, much to the delight of the room's occupants. Most of the club members were in awe of the majestic stag, but Harry caught the look on the face of his godfather, who was sitting at the back of the room. Sirius smirked and gave him a thumbs-up, presumably for his handling of the objection, but Harry could also tell that he was a little misty-eyed. Though he had certainly been present when Harry had first cast it at the end of third year, he had been more than a little preoccupied with the Dementors who were trying to suck out their souls at the time. This was the first time he had actually seen it up close, and he was no doubt reminded of the first stag Potter he had known. His attention was drawn back to the Patronus which had stopped its prancing and, approaching Fleur, nuzzled her cheek, prompting a giggle in response, which prompted the obligatory ahs and sighs from the female population of the room.

With a tender smile at Fleur, Harry allowed the Patronus to dissipate, and turned to a slack-jawed McLaggen. "You should know by now that I don't make any claims that I can't back up. Any questions?"

"I have a question," Nigel Johnson from Slytherin spoke up. "How the hell did you manage to learn to cast a corporeal patronus? It's difficult for an _adult_ wizard to cast."

"I had pretty good motivation," was Harry's dry response. "Remember a couple of years ago when the Ministry posted Dementors around the school?" A chorus of understanding met his question. "They took a bit of an interest in me, and the Defense Professor taught me how to cast it so I could protect myself. Now it's pretty much second nature.

"Now," Harry continued, as he began meandering around the room, "can anyone tell me what exactly a Patronus is?"

"It's the embodiment of good emotions," Angelina Johnson explained. "You call up a good memory and use it to create the Patronus."

"Very good. In fact, the better the memory, the more powerful the Patronus. Now, can anyone tell me what it can be used for?"

"It's used primarily for defense against certain dark creatures," said Fred.

"Specifically Lethifolds and Dementors," added George.

"What's a Lethifold?" Dennis Creevey asked.

"That's not really important since you don't find them here," Harry replied. "But Dementors _are_ found in England, and since they sided with Voldemort—" The typical cringes and a few cries met his use of the dark lord's name, but Harry soldiered on undeterred. "They sided with him last time, and I expect they will do so again. This is why we will be learning the charm."

Silence met Harry's declaration, but though there were a few expressions of distaste or fear, most of the club seemed eager to learn. And they had better; casting a Patronus was difficult enough when not faced by a Dementor—when they were actually present, it became all that much more complicated and required much more focus and courage. If they were to have any club members with the ability to combat the foul creatures, they needed to start working now, and have people with not only the power, but also the will to cast it.

"Now, a couple of things before we get started," Harry resumed speaking. "The Patronus takes a lot of practice and power, not to mention requiring a good memory to cast. If you don't have the appropriate good memory in mind, you will fail to cast the spell. Regardless, the spell is very difficult, and I doubt anyone in this room who is not already able to cast it will be able to do so by the end of the night. So don't get discouraged—keep trying, and if you are having trouble, try another memory.

"Second, I will tell you all that some of you will not manage to cast a corporeal Patronus no matter how much you practice." A chorus of groans, not to mention a few annoyed looks, met his statement. "I don't know who," he continued over the noise, "but not everyone has the brute strength you need to cast it. An incorporeal patronus can help as well, as it acts sort of like a shield—it will protect you until help arrives.

"Finally, you must understand that a Patronus _does not_ destroy a Dementor—rather it drives it off. There is no known method of destroying a Dementor."

"What about a really powerful Patronus?" Parvati asked.

Harry glanced over at Hermione, motioning her to take that question. Hermione thought about it for a moment before she began to respond, in what Harry had come to recognize as her "expounding voice."

"There are no known instances in which a Dementor has been killed or even injured. The Ministry doesn't exactly control them—they stay at Azkaban because they feed off the positive emotions of the prisoners, and eventually the prisoners themselves. However, they have no loyalty and nothing that we would call honor—they will almost certainly support Voldemort if he promises them more souls to feed on, and he almost certainly will."

"Then why doesn't the Ministry get rid of them?" demanded Michael Corner.

"Because they are useful and the Minister doesn't believe You-Know-Who has returned," said Susan. "They cost nothing from the Ministry's budget, they are highly effective at keeping prisoners in Azkaban, and they also provide an easy method of dealing with prisoners—most don't last long under the effects of Dementors."

"And they will side with You-Know-Who." It wasn't a question, but Hannah's statement appeared to send a chill through the club.

"Undoubtedly," Harry spoke up. "They are natural allies and they've done it before."

Silence fell over the room as the members of the club digested this. Looking out over them, Harry could see that most of the faces were fearful. But while many also seemed determined, there were a few who obviously wondering if they had made the right choice to align themselves with him. The coming days as Voldemort once more became a force in the Wizarding world would test their strength and resolve.

"Listen to me. What you all need to understand is that most of you will find yourself opposing Voldemort whether you like it or not." As he spoke, Harry looked out at the members, willing them to understand what he was saying. Every eye was on him and everyone appeared to be considering his words. "If you're Muggleborn like Hermione, Voldemort is already your enemy. If you're a Halfblood, he might deign to tolerate you, but will always consider you to be a second-rate citizen. And even if you are a Pureblood, he will require you to choose to support him, or stand against him. There will be no middle ground."

As he spoke, Harry's eyes flicked to Daphne, and she gave him a slight nod—he would not reveal exactly what she had told him, but the Purebloods in the room needed to understand exactly what they were facing.

"And even if you don't fight openly against Voldemort," he continued after a moment, "learning to defend yourself, especially against Dementors, will help you when things start to get rough. _That's_ why we will be learning the Patronus Charm. Any questions?"

There was a low murmur of sound, but no one spoke up with any more questions. The entire club appeared to be accepting, if not openly supportive. Undoubtedly, some of those in the room would not wish to fight, but even if they would not, Harry would see them able to protect themselves—that was as important as anything else in his mind.

"Very well then, let's get to it."

The chairs were cleared away, and the club gathered around Harry as he began to explain the casting of the charm.

"Now, there is no specific wand movement—you merely point your wand in the direction you want your Patronus to go once it appears. In your mind you summon up a memory which makes you happy—the happier the better. Once you have that firmly in mind, you say the incantation, _Expecto Patronum_, to cast the spell. Simple in concept, but very difficult in execution. Now, can anyone here other than Fleur and myself cast a Patronus?"

The club members turned to Fleur all at once, and the Veela witched blushed slightly. "My father taught it to me before I came to England, knowing what had happened at Hogwarts the previous year," she explained. "It took some time before I could actually cast a corporeal one."

No one spoke up—unsurprising, as it was not taught at Hogwarts, and not necessarily a well-known charm anyway. "Then let's use your example before we have everyone begin," Harry said, encouraging her to cast the spell.

Fleur smiled at him before she set herself and took a deep breath. She raised her arm and in a loud and commanding voice intoned, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

A silvery light exploded from her wand and quickly coalesced into a magnificent tiger, which was much like Fleur herself, he thought with amusement—beautiful, but possessing an impressive set of fangs. The tiger stalked about the room for several moments before Fleur allowed it to fade away. Harry noticed several looks of appraising respect for his betrothed. Despite how she had won the dueling tournament in the fall, Harry knew that her less-than-stellar performance at the Tri-Wizard was still foremost in a lot of minds. She was proving herself to be a powerful and capable witch.

"And that is how you do it. Any questions?"

When no one spoke up, Harry divided the class into groups and they began practicing the spell, while he and Fleur walked around the room giving instruction and encouragement.

Needless to say, the initial results were middling at best. Most did not even get the slightest hint of a mist when they tried casting the first time, though there were a few—Hermione unsurprisingly among them—who did manage the feat. There was also a marked difference in performance between the age groups, again unsurprisingly, as the upper years generally had more success than those younger. In fact, those under fourth year could not manage anything for the entire night, leading Harry to surmise that their magical strength had simply not developed enough to allow them the power to cast the spell. This was confirmed through a hurried conversation with Sirius and Professor Flitwick, who was also in attendance.

"That you managed to cast the Patronus at the age of thirteen is no less than astonishing, Mr. Potter," the Charms Professor noted. "Most people do not normally start to truly develop their adult strength until they are at least fifteen, and they do not reach their true potential until some time in their twenties. You will find some who develop a little earlier, but thirteen is very early."

"So what should I do about the younger members?" Harry asked. "I don't want them to become frustrated with this."

"Give them something else to do while you have the higher levels practice the Patronus," Sirius offered. "It looks like some of the fourth years will be able to get some mist at the very least—it will help them develop their magical strength if they keep trying it, but you are right about the younger years. It's a pointless exercise until they can at least get a response from their wands."

The professors were right in their comments—of the fourth years, only Ginny and Luna had been able to get any kind of response when they tried to cast the spell, and none of the younger years had had any success at all. For that matter, some of the fifth years had not been able to produce anything, though Flitwick assured him that they were all mature enough to do so.

Harry walked through the group, helping and correcting where he could, and though no one managed a corporeal Patronus by the end of the evening, Harry was happy with their progress. Several had managed an impressive spray of mist, and a couple had almost managed to coalesce their efforts into a workable shield, though he knew it would be some time yet before they managed to actually succeed in casting the spell.

When the meeting came to an end, Harry complimented them all for their diligence and determination, and sent them off with the admonition to practice whenever they could, but also to refrain from overdoing it. The class quickly emptied leaving Harry with his three closest friends, and one Defense Professor.

"Should I worry about my job, Harry?" Sirius asked with a sly grin. "You seem pretty comfortable there—the makings of a gifted teacher."

"Nah, I'll let you keep it for now," Harry cheekily responded, prompting a guffaw from his godfather in response.

"Thanks for that, cub."

"No problem, Sirius." They moved from the room and began walking back toward the Gryffindor common room. "How were your first few days as a professor?"

"Pretty good, actually," returned Sirius affably. "I didn't quite know what to expect, but I do find that I'm enjoying it." A sly smile crept over his face. "In fact, I had a bit of a run in with one of your buddies."

Harry gazed at his godfather in askance, wondering who he could mean.

"Well, Malfoy didn't seem to believe me when I said that I would treat everyone equally. He seemed to think that I'd favor you, and didn't seem to be impressed when I pointed out that he should know all about favoritism."

"That's the truth," Hermione chimed in with a certain amount of disgust. "He's only a moderately talented brewer, but if you hear Snape speak, he's God's gift to potioneers."

The group shared a laugh as they walked, but the thought of Snape and his class filled Harry with disgust. The next day was another day with Snape, and Harry was not looking forward to it once again, as Dumbledore had still not returned.

Noticing his inattention, Sirius turned to him and said, "What's up, Harry? And don't tell me nothing—I've seen that look before, and it never means anything good."

"It's nothing, Sirius," Harry said with an impish grin. "Just greasy bat problems; nothing to get all worked up about."

Sirius stopped and regarded Harry critically. "You're having trouble with Snape?" he demanded.

"Nothing I haven't dealt with before."

Sirius, however, did not appear to be amused with Harry's glib tone. "Dealt with it before or not, I want to hear about any problems with Snape."

"He doesn't want to come off as a whiner," Ron chimed in helpfully.

Harry glared at Ron, motioning him to cease, but Sirius threw up his hands in exasperation. "Harry, you're certainly not a whiner. If anything, you have a tendency to suffer in silence."

"Here, here!" Fleur exclaimed. "We've tried telling him that, but he's too stubborn to listen."

Though he turned his glare on Fleur, her impish smile dispelled his annoyance and made him laugh. He put an arm around her and hugged her to him affectionately, which garnered the amused looks of the others.

Sirius, though he appeared as though he wanted to say something, merely grinned and said, "Now tell me what's going on."

Sighing, Harry looked Sirius in the eye. "He's just being a git again. Took points away from me last class for 'being an obtuse dunderhead' and then five more for disrespect."

"That doesn't even mention the points he took away while you were brewing," Ron protested. "He watched you like a hawk and pretty much ignored the rest of us."

Countenance darkening, Sirius muttered, "As if the git deserves any respect.

"But what happened to make come after you?" Sirius asked.

"I don't know," replied Harry with a shrug. "He hasn't exactly been friendly, but at least he's been tolerable since Dumbledore spoke to him in September. But Monday was the return of the foul git from the moment he entered the class."

"And you were just going to let him get away with it this time?" Sirius demanded with exasperation. "Harry, you don't need to put up with him—I'm here to help you, any of the other professors would take your side, and you can send a letter to Jean-Sebastian if you need to."

"I wasn't going to put up with it," Harry protested. "I was going to talk to Dumbledore, but he's away."

"That's good," Sirius responded, "but when he's not here don't suffer in silence. Tell a professor."

"All right, Sirius, I will."

"Good." Sirius turned and began walking again, but his head clearly was not with Harry and his friends any longer. "You four get back to your common room—it's almost curfew. I'll see you tomorrow, Harry."

They split paths at the stairway, the Gryffindors heading toward their common room, while Sirius headed down into the lower levels of the castle. As he watched his godfather go, Harry decided that the feeling of having someone firmly in his corner—an adult this time—was one which he liked very much. Of course, Dumbledore, Jean-Sebastian, and even some of the other professors had supported him in the past, but outside of Remus, whom he had not seen since the man had left Hogwarts, never had he felt it from someone who was so closely connected with his father. It was a heady feeling.

"Do you think we should call in the Aurors?" Ron asked.

Three sets of eyes swiveled to him, and Ron's expression became positively predatory. "Sirius looks like he's going to have a conversation with the greasy bat, and I'm betting the dungeons turn into a war zone."

"That's just too bad for Slytherin, isn't it?" Harry said, returning his devious grin.

The four friends laughed and continued on toward the common room. Whatever happened in the dungeons, Harry was certain he would hear about it the next day. It truly was good to have a protector in the castle. Snape would never know what hit him.

* * *

In truth, Ron's supposition was not far from the truth. As he stalked down the stairs toward a certain git's office, Sirius's mood was such that the beginning of the Second Wizarding War was not out of the question.

Simply put, Snape had been a thorn in Sirius's side for far too long, and he was longing to pluck the offending burr and immolate it in dragon fire. The twit deserved no less, especially with all the crap the man had pulled with Harry since he had started at Hogwarts, to make no mention of some of the things which had happened when Sirius had attended Hogwarts with the Slytherin.

To be completely fair and honest, Sirius supposed that the enmity between the Marauders—though more particularly James and Sirius—and Snape had been as much the Marauders' faults as it had been Snape's. Sirius and James had not treated Snape well, and their penchant for playing practical jokes often resulted in Snape being a target. Sirius knew this and admitted it, even if only to himself.

The one thing he truly regretted was the incident when had told Snape how to get to the Shrieking Shack, and the Slytherin had been attacked by Moony. Though he had just answered a challenge Snape had put to him—in fact, Sirius could not even remember what it had been about—he had left out the critical piece of information that it was inhabited by a werewolf, leaving James to save Snape from Moony. In addition to the danger he had put the Slytherin into, it had also led to Snape's discovery of Moony's furry little problem, and had ultimately led to Moony leaving the Defense Professorship, as Sirius was almost certain that it had been the Slytherin who had let the cat out of the bag.

Sirius had been a jerk as teenager—there was no getting around that fact. James and Moony had certainly had their moments as well, but Snape had had his own moments. But whereas Sirius and Remus had grown up and matured, and James had calmed down considerably before his death, Snape continued to act like he was a teenager, holding this ridiculous grudge against James's son. It could not be allowed to continue. Snape could hate Sirius until the day he died—Sirius truly did not care. But he would not let him continue to persecute Harry, who was innocent in any of the bad blood between them. Sirius was going to make that very clear to the potions master.

As he stalked into the dungeons, Sirius slowed his steps, trying to calm his mind. It would do no good to walk into Snape's office with wand blazing, after all. The trick was to confront him and tell him that his behavior would no longer be acceptable, without losing his temper or giving Snape anything to use against him. And he would use anything he could find against him—of that Sirius was sure. He doubted Snape would be able to influence Dumbledore to sack him—not with all the trouble he had had in finding defense professors—but Snape would undoubtedly try to make his life difficult.

In fact, Sirius was almost certain he knew why Snape was acting this way. It had come out in a rather offhand conversation with McGonagall that Snape had always wanted the Defense position, though why exactly Sirius was not certain. Though he was loath to give the bat any credit at all, he had to admit that Snape was a gifted brewer. He was not, however, gifted at defense, and would not make the best professor, in Sirius's opinion, even disregarding his inability to teach a subject he excelled at. By contrast, Defense had been one of Sirius's best subjects, and he had spent time in the Auror department after Hogwarts. Sirius knew that he was much more qualified to teach Defense that the Slytherin.

_Snape was probably more suited to _the use of the dark arts_ than defending against them_, Sirius thought somewhat snarkily. He was certain Snape had been involved with the dark arts long before his graduation from Hogwarts—his subsequent allegiance to Voldemort seemed to bear that supposition out.

The one thing, about which Sirius was uncertain, was why exactly Dumbledore chose to keep the greasy bat in such a position of authority. Oh, he knew about the claim that Snape was now a spy for the light side, but unless Dumbledore had some sort of hold over him, Sirius knew that Snape was inherently untrustworthy, and his ideals bore no resemblance whatsoever to those the Headmaster espoused. Sirius did not trust the man, and would not trust him, even if he proclaimed his undying allegiance to the light under the influence of Veritaserum. Sirius suspected that the potions master was in actuality playing both sides, attempting to ensure that he sided with the winning faction and appearing indispensible to both. It was certainly a Slytherin thing to do.

By the time Sirius's footsteps had carried him to the door to the potions master's office, he had worked himself up to a healthy anger towards the potions master, not that that was any great feat. Slowing in front of the office, Sirius took one deep breath to calm himself for a rational conversation—or as rational as a conversation with Snape was likely to be—and pushed open the door.

The force which he had exerted to open the door was admittedly excessive, and it swung wide open, crashing against the wall loudly. Unconcerned, Sirius strode through the door and closed it with a flick of his wand, not to mention an equal amount of force.

It was a disappointment that Snape showed no surprise, nor did he jump at the sound of the door opening. He merely peered up at Sirius from where he sat behind his desk and, apparently deciding to ignore his presence, went back to a stack of parchments he appeared to be grading.

Unconcerned, Sirius stalked toward the desk and, flicking his wand and directing another chair to the opposite side from where Snape was still ignoring him, sat on the chair and extended his legs up to rest on Snape's desk. Nonchalantly he looked around the office, noting that the place had not truly changed from the time Sirius had attended Hogwarts. The paraphernalia and personal effects were certainly different, and Slughorn's prominently displayed pictures of the people he had collected for his "Slug Club" were absent, but the office was still dark and dreary, and possessed the odd combination of a damp, musty smell common to most stone dungeons, and the scents of the various potions ingredients and brews which had been created over the years. On the side of the office, two cauldrons stood on fires, bubbling merrily away, while the fumes were collected into a hood overhead, presumably complete with banishing charms. Sirius hated to think of how the place would stink if those charms were not present.

"Is there anything I can do for you Black?"

Sirius lazily glanced over and met the potions master's dark and foreboding gaze, noting with a certain amount of satisfaction the annoyance in the man's expression. Snape was certainly good at hiding and suppressing his emotions and reactions, but Sirius had an instinctual understanding of how to read him. It came from seven years of getting under his skin, and while Sirius was still not proud of the way he had acted, the experience would come in handy, he was certain.

"I just thought I'd come and catch up on old times," Sirius responded glibly. "I've been in the castle for four days now, and we still haven't caught up. How have you been, Snivvy?"

Snivellous, Snivvy, Sevvy-poo, Snapedragon; they—and others—had all been names with which the Marauders had taunted the Slytherin over the years, and Sirius was relishing being able to use them again, just for old times' sake. Or perhaps he wasn't as grown up as he had thought. _Damn…_

"As you can see, I'm rather busy," Snape said, returning his gaze to his parchments. "I'm sure we can… 'catch up' some other time."

"Oh, I'm sure you can spare the time," was Sirius's smooth response. "I figure you've been in the castle for a while. We can talk of the students, or different techniques for teaching. Or perhaps we can speak of some of the students in particular."

A raised eyebrow met his comments, and Snape's ever-present sneer once again made its appearance. It had not changed for many years, Sirius reflected.

"I do not believe we have anything to discuss." Snape's voice was gravelly, and the effort to even speak to him appeared to be costing Snape some of his equilibrium. "If you must know, I consider you to be just as much of a buffoon as you ever were, and your presence here is an insult to those of us who have made a career of educating. Dumbledore can put a professor's robes on you, but he cannot transform you into a professor, no matter how he tries. You can put a unicorn's horn on a horse, but it's still just a horse."

"I suppose you would know all about bad teaching," Sirius jibed. "It's what you've been foisting off on Hogwarts' students for more than a decade, isn't it?"

"I'll have you know I am a premiere potions master—"

"And an extremely poor professor," Sirius shot back. "I've got quite an idea of what goes on in your class, Snivellous, and I find it rather amusing that you've got the gall to actually call yourself an 'educator.'"

Snape's sneer was blooming in its full glory. "You never could take anything seriously."

"Oh, I assure you that I take this _very seriously_. And I suggest you rein in your resentment and grow up. Maybe for once it would be a novelty to actually provide the students with the instruction you are _paid_ to provide!"

"I suppose the spawn of your _friend_," Snape almost spat the word as though he was trying to rid his mouth of the taste of a decaying flobberworm, "had the temerity to complain about his last class. Perhaps he should acquire a modicum of competence before he goes about complaining about the professor."

"And perhaps you should acquire a modicum of teaching ability before you try to pass yourself off as a professor," Sirius snapped. "Like I said, I've got a good idea of what happens in your classroom, and I certainly did not get all of my information from my godson. Your behavior is unpardonable, and I will be taking it up with Dumbledore."

Snape waved his hand dismissively. "By all means, if you feel the little brat has been ill used."

"Your very words condemn you." Sirius was all but snarling by now and he was having difficulty staying in control of his temper. Unfortunately, Snape had always had this effect on him—it was difficult to _not_ hate the man.

"You had better moderate your prejudices," Sirius continued, while forcing his ire down. "I don't know how the rest of the professors feel about you, but I suspect you've been manipulating the house cup every year you've been here, which not only is against your responsibilities as a professor, but also unfair for the members of the three other houses. I'll have you thrown from the castle if you don't shape up."

"Do what you will," Snape said with another dismissive wave, while he turned his attention back to his work.

With as much distaste as he had ever felt, Sirius observed the man's studious attempts to ignore him. This had been, he mused, the most civil discussion he had ever had with Snape, regardless of its acrimony—things had been that bad between them. But Snape's attempt at bravado, Sirius felt he could almost sense… something. He was not even certain what he was feeling. But having had thirteen long years to think about what had happened, and knowing Snape's association with Voldemort, which Sirius believed started before he had left Hogwarts, Sirius had a series of suspicions about the potions master about exactly what his activities had been. The conclusions he had drawn were not pleasant, and would earn Snape an early death if they proved correct, but for now, all Sirius had was a number of suspicions which unfortunately seemed to fit the circumstances.

Therefore, he would bide his time—Snape was not going anywhere after all. But that did not mean that a little warning was not in order. On the contrary, perhaps it was time for Snape to understand exactly what awaited him if Sirius's suspicions were ever proven to be the truth.

Shifting in his chair, Sirius lowered his feet from Snape's desk. He leaned forward and put both forearms on the edge of the desk, and peered forward at the potions master intently. Noticing his change in posture, Snape glanced up, his only change in demeanor being that damnable raised eyebrow which had always infuriated Sirius in the past. He longed to knock the smarmy git on his arse and remove his eyebrows forcibly. But now was not the time—patience was called for.

"Do you remember the last conversation you and I had before we left Hogwarts?"

The eyebrow lowered, but Snape did not show any other reaction that he knew to what Sirius was referring. He made no response.

"I'll remind you then," Sirius snarled. "I told you then that I would be watching you, that I knew that you were up to your ears in the dark arts. I also caught you looking at Lily like she was some sort of dragon steak, and I told you then that there would be consequences if you ever aided Voldemort.

"I cannot prove it right now, but I suspect that you had something to do with James and Lily's betrayal and death."

"And why would you think I would do anything to hurt my dearest friend?" Snape scoffed.

"But she wasn't your dearest friend any longer by then, was she?"

An expression almost akin to regret appeared on Snape's features, and though he kept his own countenance even, Sirius was surprised. Snape had never shown regret for anything he had ever done, to Sirius's knowledge. He was the type of person who appeared to believe that whatever he wanted was his by right—the Snape Sirius had known had no room, no capacity for regret.

"Perhaps _she_ did not consider _me_ to be her dearest friend, but I assure you that the feeling was most decidedly _not_ mutual."

"Be that as it may," Sirius responded, ignoring this glimpse into Snape's psyche, but deciding to ponder it later, "I know for a fact that you didn't shed any tears when my friend died."

To his credit, Snape did not attempt to deny or mitigate that fact in any way. Instead, he merely gazed at Sirius evenly and said, "And so by your convoluted logic, my feelings for your… _friend_ mean that I'm guilty of killing him. How convenient for you to come to such a conclusion without a shred of evidence."

"On the contrary," Sirius replied, "I have not come to any conclusion; if I had, you would be dead."

"Bravado," Snape said with a contemptuous snort.

"Call it what you like," Sirius said, making his voice clearly dismissive. "You and I both know you were never a match for me when we were in school, and you're no match for me now."

"Says the man who just spent the past thirteen years in Azkaban."

"Fine. Underestimate me if you like." Sirius rose from the chair, but before he turned to depart, he looked Snape in the eye. "But remember—if I do ever find out that you had something to do with the Potters' betrayal and deaths, it will not go well for you. Dumbledore's support or not, there will be a reckoning, so you'd better hope that if there is something there, that I don't find it."

Snape shrugged and with exaggerated insouciance turned back to his work. "Whenever you'd like, I'm waiting."

Seeing the man was not about to say anything more and knowing more threats at the point were hardly necessary, Sirius turned and left the room.

* * *

Later the night of the club meeting, Fleur said good night to her friends and went up to the seventh years' dorm, intent on reading a little before she went to bed. It had been a long day and Fleur was looking forward to a little sleep and recuperation.

Keeping up with her betrothed was definitely a challenging prospect—Harry seemed to have an energy about him that defied description. Likely a good thing, she mused, considering the responsibility the prophecy had dumped on him. He needed to learn and to plan, or Voldemort would never be taken down.

Oh, that was not to say that Harry would have to do it himself. Fleur planned to be there with him along every step of the way, and he had many friends who felt the same way, not to even mention Sirius, Dumbledore, her father, and all the others who were willing to stand with him.

To that end, with the information Daphne had given Harry on the express, Fleur was hopeful they would be able to gain even more support. Harry had passed the information on to her father, and she knew that he would be proactive in meeting with the soon-to-be-former neutrals. Daphne's parents did not sound like the type of people who would be immersed in a cause, but their support—or at least their lack of opposition—would undoubtedly be useful, if only for the products they could supply. It was, perhaps, a rather cold way of thinking of the situation, but the times demanded such thoughts. Fleur had long determined that she would do whatever she could to ensure Harry's support and Voldemort's defeat. While she would not compromise her morality to do so, she would do just about anything else.

After readying herself for bed, Fleur stepped from the communal bathroom and into the sixth year dorm to a sight which surprised her—Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, playing with the cuffs of her sweater. The brunette had a pensive expression on her face, as though deep in thought, and as she had not noticed Fleur's presence, she took a moment to study the girl who was now her closest friend.

Hermione had changed since Fleur had first met her—she was now much more confident, especially in social matters, and had gained a little more balance between that and her more academic pursuits, which Fleur felt she had at times lacked in the past. Hermione would never be the life of the party, but Fleur herself was not such a person, so their personalities actually complemented one another rather nicely. In the past few days, however, especially since boarding the express, though Fleur had to admit that it had started some time before, she had noticed Hermione's withdrawn behavior. She had been preoccupied by something, and it had affected her interactions with her friends.

"Hermione," Fleur said as she entered the room fully and announced herself.

Jumping up from the bed in obvious surprise, Hermione appeared like a child who had been caught doing something naughty. Seeing Fleur's mischievous expression, she rolled her eyes and sat back down on the bed. "You didn't have to scare the life out of me."

"I wouldn't have if you had been paying attention," Fleur chided gently. "What is bothering you, Hermione? You have been this way for a while now."

Embarrassment filled her, and Hermione's cheeks bloomed in a full blush. "Has it been that obvious?"

"To me, perhaps. But then again, we've become so close that I notice things long before others likely would. I think Harry may have noticed it, but he's far too polite to ever say anything."

A moment later, Hermione had visibly straightened her posture and, taking a deep breath, she looked Fleur in the eye. "Do you remember what we talked about before coming to Hogwarts?"

"About Harry?" Fleur asked cautiously.

"Yes," was Hermione's succinct reply. "I've come to a decision. I want to take you up on your offer."

A smile spread over Fleur's face, but she was cautious. "Have you discussed this with your parents?"

Looking down at the floor, Hermione shook her head. "I haven't yet, but I know I will have to. I know they will support me in whatever I decide, but it will be a shock to them. That's why I want to take this slowly."

"How slowly?" Fleur asked bluntly.

"I don't exactly have a schedule set up," Hermione said with a wry grin. "I just want to give myself a chance to become used to it, and not overwhelm Harry. Let's keep it between you and me for now."

"It's not fair to Harry for us to be plotting behind his back."

"I don't want to plot," Hermione rejoined. "It's just that Harry has so much happening right now, that I don't think it's fair to dump it all on him now. This needs to be handled delicately—he doesn't even know that he can have more than one wife. And besides, we don't even know that he will go for the idea.

"Oh, I know what you've said about his feelings," Hermione continued when Fleur would have interrupted, "and I _do_ think that he fancies me to a certain extent. But he might find the idea of two wives distasteful. I don't want to set myself up to be hurt."

Fleur gazed at her friend with some understanding, but also a determination that Harry not be kept in the dark. The set-down she had delivered to her father also applied to Harry's closest friends, after all—he deserved to know things which would affect his life.

"Don't you think that the love and support of his closest friend would be a great asset to him?"

"Yes it would. But we have to be careful, not only for his feelings, but for mine too."

Fleur considered her friend's words—it was not difficult to agree with her. But Harry did need to be told, and soon. Perhaps there was a way to make it easier on him and on Hermione both. "I do not think that Harry is as clueless as you seem to think. I think if we made it clear to him in a memorable sort of way, he would be all for it."

"Memorable is good," Hermione responded with an impish smile. "I assume you have something in mind?"

Smiling wickedly, Fleur sat down beside her friend on the bed. "I think I do have an idea which will make it _very_ memorable for him."

* * *

The next day, Sirius had to force himself to concentrate on his classes and though meeting the students and teaching the material was as interesting and engaging as it had been previously, his mind was preoccupied. His words to Snape the previous day had not been mere bravado; something about the whole situation—the prophecy, Voldemort's return, the attack on the Potters, and Dumbledore's insistence on keeping Snape in the castle, regardless of the evident drawbacks—something bothered him. The fact that he was not quite able to put his finger on it exasperated him to no end, but his frustration with himself did not bring any answers.

One thing Sirius was certain of was that Snape was somehow complicit in either the Potters' betrayal or their death, whether the Death Eater had intended for them to be killed or not. Certainly Sirius could not imagine that the man had wished for the death of his closest childhood friend, despite the less than savory path he travelled as one of Voldemort's followers. James, however, was another matter altogether—Sirius knew that Snape would most likely have pumped his fist and screamed with glee at James's death, likely topping off with a session of dancing on his grave. Sirius would not put it past Snape to have tried to engineer James's demise so that he could swoop in and "comfort" Lily upon her becoming a widow. Privately, Sirius felt that Snape fancied himself to be in love with Lily, but Sirius was certain that Snape was the type of person who could only ever love himself.

But something was off about the whole thing. Try as he might, Sirius could not imagine how Snape could have engineered the whole thing. The prophecy had been known before that night in October when he had lost two of his closest friends—Dumbledore had taken James and Lily aside to explain it to them once he understood the implications, and James had been quick to share what he had learned. It had been one of the primary reasons why Lily and James had acceded to his wishes and gone into hiding. The fact that Voldemort had chosen to target the Potters appeared to be chance, regardless of what Dumbledore had told Harry. Frank and Alice had been just as much of a thorn in Voldemort's side as Lily and James had been. It was entirely possible that he had intended to kill both Harry and Neville the same night, though it seemed unlikely; they knew that Voldemort had already owned the Potters' secret keeper, but the Longbottom's secret keeper had not been compromised until after Voldemort's disappearance.

What Sirius could not be certain of was how Snape fit into all of this. Had he urged Voldemort to attack the Potters, asking Voldemort to spare Lily's life? That was certainly possible, but there were several problems with that line of thought. First and foremost was the fact that Voldemort was not known for taking advice from _anyone_, even his own advisors. The thought that he would do so from a relatively new follower, one who was a _Halfblood_, no less, seemed doubtful. Or had Snape somehow been the means by which Pettigrew had been turned? Again, it seemed unlikely—Snape had hated the Marauders equally, and moreover, he doubted Snape would have known that it was Peter who was the secret keeper, not Sirius. He and James had told no one else after they had made the switch. What else could Snape have to do with the Potters' betrayal? Unfortunately, Sirius could not think of anything, and it was bothering him. The answer seemed like it should be clear, but clarity would not come. Unfortunately, he would need more time to consider the matter. Perhaps something would jog his memory and the answer would become clear. Some of the patience he had learned in Azkaban was obviously required.

It was late afternoon before Dumbledore returned from his ICW duties, and as Sirius was busy with his classes, it was after dinner that evening before he was able to take his concerns to the Headmaster.

"He's reverted, has he?" Dumbledore asked while running a hand down his long and flowing beard. "I cannot say that I am surprised. He has behaved quite well for the past several months, but I always knew that it would not last. It appears that hiring you for the Defense post has pushed him over the edge."

"So McGonagall was right?" Sirius queried. "Snape covets the Defense post?"

"He does," was Dumbledore's simple confirmation. "He has pressed me for the Defense position every time I must find a new professor, which has unfortunately been yearly. In the past several years, he has become more and more insistent. I have put him off every year, as his strength is obviously potions, but I may unfortunately have to accept his offer, if obtaining the services of a Defense Professor continues to become more difficult."

"You don't need to worry about that," Sirius stated definitively. "I can continue to teach, at least until Harry graduates. After that, you may need to find someone new, but until then I will stay on."

"That is very much appreciated, Sirius."

Sirius glared at Dumbledore with some asperity. "I'm not doing it only for you and the school. I want to remain close to Harry, and this gives me the opportunity to do so. Besides, whatever Snape feels about his abilities, he is most certainly _not_ qualified to be the Defense instructor."

"I think you underestimate him."

"And I'm certain that I don't," replied Sirius, somewhat dismissively. "He is a talented—even gifted—potions master, but you forget that I grew up with him. He was never any more than an average student in defense. Now, when Voldemort is stirring up trouble again, it's more important than ever that the children receive a good education in defense. I mean to ensure they get it."

Dumbledore nodded, but chose not to respond. He likely still thought he was in the right about Snape, but Sirius was not about to give one inch in this argument. He was right and he knew it.

"Then that brings us back to Snape's anger with me. He has always coveted the position, and suddenly, in the middle of the school year, I waltz in and take over. And moreover, he hates me and resents my very presence in the castle."

Albus's responding tone was gently remonstrating. "There is some justification for his feelings, Sirius."

Sirius just waved the Headmaster off impatiently. "I am well aware of my failings and my behavior as a teenager. I am much more concerned about the fact that while I have grown and matured, it appears that your potions professor has not. His persecution must stop, Dumbledore. Otherwise, he must go."

"I understand your point, Sirius," Dumbledore responded with a sigh. "I have blunted the worst of his excesses over the years since he has joined this faculty, but he has become more difficult to control since Harry began attending. He has always treated Gryffindor with a certain contempt, but Harry particularly has been his target."

"Excesses?" Sirius demanded. "What are you talking about?"

"Severus has always been quite… liberal in deducting points from other houses, particularly from Gryffindor. He does not often award points to anyone, even his own house, so that has been less of a problem. But as I told Harry earlier this year, I review every point deduction he gives out, and will adjust them if I feel they are unwarranted. Like I said, until Harry arrived, it was much less of a problem. To be sure, it may have influenced the house cup in Slytherin's favor if allowed to stand, but I have avoided that."

Considering what he was being told, Sirius once again wondered at the fact that Dumbledore was willing to overlook this behavior in favor of having the potions master here. Was the man here due to his use as a spy, or was there something more which necessitated—in Dumbledore's mind at least—his continued employment? Sirius doubted that Dumbledore would be completely explicit, but there was no harm in trying.

"I understand that you've done your best to keep him from making a mockery of the house cup, but really, why is it so important that he remains in the castle?"

"His value as a spy is beyond measure, Sirius."

Sirius snorted. "I think you overestimate his value—he doesn't appear to have done much for our cause, to be honest. And yes you have helped him be a little fairer to the students, but the inescapable fact is that they are receiving a substandard education with him as the professor. 'Instructions are on the board. Begin!' is not exactly a sterling teaching method. And how can you be certain he's loyal? If his attitude is any indication, I doubt he's given up the dogma he embraced, and he's perfectly positioned to play both sides to ensure he comes out on the winning side."

The effect of Sirius's statements was almost instantaneous—Dumbledore's eyes flashed and his face fell into a mask of disapproval. The Headmaster did not show it often, but his elderly grandfather act only masked the intimidating defeater of Grindelwald. That was why he was one of the most feared and respected wizards in the world.

"Do not insult my intelligence, Sirius," Dumbledore snapped. "I am far from stupid, and am more than capable of ensuring that one man stays loyal."

While Dumbledore's displeasure was impressive, Sirius was not about to be intimidated by anyone. "How so?"

"I cannot be explicit," the Headmaster responded evenly, "as it would betray certain confidences. But I can tell you that I have bound Severus to me and to the light with unbreakable chains. He is incapable of acting against the interests of the light and beyond that, he has a powerful motivation to comply."

The way Dumbledore was speaking, it almost suggested an unbreakable vow. Sirius was certain, however, that it could not be so. Not only would Dumbledore have had to trust someone to be the binder, but Snape would also have had to agree to it, highly unlikely in Sirius's opinion. That left some type of life debt, or magical oath. How Dumbledore could have gotten Snape to agree to such a thing Sirius could not say. He seemed certain of his assertions, and would brook no opposition.

"Very well, but you cannot expect me to suddenly trust him," Sirius replied, aware that further argument would not be particularly useful.

"No, I'm certain that your mistrust of each other is far too ingrained for that," was the Headmaster's response. "All I ask is that you attempt to behave civilly with each other. I will speak to Severus again and direct him to rein in his inclination to persecute Harry."

He took at deep breath and stared Sirius in the eye, his demeanor and words conveying his seriousness. "I want you to know that I do not do this lightly. I have often thought about removing Severus when his actions, as they are now, were egregious and indefensible.

"But I must warn you that I will do _anything_ to ensure that Voldemort is defeated." Dumbledore's gaze was steady and his words were firm and filled with conviction. "If Voldemort prevails in this struggle, Britain—and indeed possibly the entire world!—may entire an age so dark, that it may never recover. Every time I think of dismissing Severus, I think on what a world under Voldemort would be like. I will not leave an arrow in my quiver unloosed, especially as important and potentially devastating an arrow as Severus may turn out to be. A substandard education in potions pales in significance to the world I foresee should Voldemort win."

"Very well," said Sirius, rising to leave. Before he did, however, he turned back to Dumbledore. When he spoke again, his voice was implacable. "But I will warn you—I suspect that Snape had a hand in what happened to James and Lily. If I ever confirm my suspicions, I will have justice."

"Don't do anything rash, Sirius," Dumbledore cautioned. "That is all I ask."

Sirius nodded tightly before turning to leave. There was much more to think about now, and he would need to ensure he considered all the angles.

* * *

_Updated 08/09/2013  
_


	37. Chapter 36 – Further Machinations

**Chapter 36 – Further Machinations**

Sirius of course had an amusing story to tell of his confrontation with Snape, though he was discreet enough to tell only Harry and his immediate friends. But though his rendition of the meeting and his warning to the potions master to leave Harry alone was amusing—not to mention highly exaggerated at the very least—Harry could not help but wonder exactly what had occurred between the two of them. Knowing of Sirius's antipathy for Snape, he doubted that the meeting had been as lighthearted as Sirius had related, and he had no doubt angry words and threats had likely been exchanged between the two rivals.

Whatever exactly had taken place, it could not be argued that Harry's potions class on Thursday was far less uncomfortable than Monday's session had been. Whether that indicated that Sirius's discussion with Snape had had an effect, or whatever had been bothering the potions master had been purged from his system by his persecution that first class, Harry could not be certain. He was inclined to believe that it was likely the latter rather than the former, as Snape was much less unpleasant towards Harry, eschewing any potions deductions, while continuing to point out Harry's deficiencies whenever possible. Harry was not about to question his good fortune and bring it up. Potions class the following Monday had brought about a further shift in the potions master's behavior—he completely ignored Harry's existence, certainly a welcome change from open and outright hostility. It was different from the distant but forced politeness with which the git had favored him before winter break, but it was not at all unwelcome. Privately, Harry felt that if Snape would just continue to ignore him for the remainder of his time at Hogwarts, he would cheerfully accept such a change in fortune.

The remainder of the week and the beginning of the next were otherwise uneventful, though the newly undertaken discipline of Occlumency did take up some of his time. The exercises Fleur had taught them were to be undertaken every night, and wanting to bar the Dark Lord from his mind, Harry had been diligent in doing them. So far he considered it to be a success, as he had been able to remember previously forgotten details, and fancied that he had an increased ability to remember facts, particularly those taught in his classes. Whether he was already seeing success was largely irrelevant, Harry thought—sometimes the illusion of success was as important as actually finding success itself.

Unfortunately, Tuesday night, the second week of school, saw an event which underscored the need to deny Voldemort any purchase. It had been a typical school evening. The friends had concentrated on their homework after dinner, adjourning to their borrowed classroom after they had finished for their Tuesday evening session of Occlumency training. Though the training was still in its infancy and the exercises were somewhat tedious in nature, Harry still enjoyed them for the simple fact that they allowed a certain closeness and intimacy, not only with his betrothed, but also with his best friend.

It had gotten late and once the three friends had finished their training, they packed up for the return to the common room, intent upon getting there before curfew—though they did not know who was patrolling that evening and Harry and Hermione were both prefects, it did not make sense to test fate and potentially give Malfoy a chance to pull rank on them, if it was his responsibility to be patrolling that evening. They were just about to leave the room, when Harry felt the connection between himself and Voldemort light up with a sudden and fierce sense of elation. The emotions of the Dark Lord battered him such that for a moment he was nearly insensible.

When the worried voices of his friends finally penetrated the fog of Voldemort-induced glee, and he looked up to the worried countenance of his betrothed watching him with concern, not to mention a little fear.

"Harry, what happened?" Fleur asked, her voice mirroring the expression on her face in her concern.

"Voldemort," Harry gasped. "Not sure what happened, but he's pretty happy about something."

The three looked at each other for a few minutes before Fleur stood and took charge. "Come here, Harry," she said, and she sat down on a chair while Harry took the seat in front of her. "This is the perfect time to talk about pushing another from your mind. Do you remember what I said that if someone gets past your mindscape that you can force them out?"

When Harry nodded, she smiled and grasped his hands. "Think of the feeling in your mind, and imagine that it's a physical thing."

Soothed by Fleur's soft words, Harry closed his eyes and tried to picture the presence in his mind. The elation had dampened a little, replaced by the feeling of overwhelming satisfaction, laced liberally with a sense of smug superiority. In his mind, he tried to imagine that the feelings projected were physical entities which could be touched. In the background he could hear Fleur as she continued to speak.

"As you do this, try to get a feel for them. Imagine you have hands in your mind and use them to push the foreign objects out."

Lulled by Fleur's voice, Harry did as she asked. He summoned his will and imagined him pushing on the mass of roiling emotions surging over his link with Voldemort. At first nothing seemed to happen, but as Harry continued to press on the foreign emotions, he began to feel a shift in the mass. It was slow work, but as it gathered momentum, he could feel the Dark Lord's emotions lessen and then, they suddenly exited his mind, almost like a cork springing from the mouth of a bottle. The sense from Voldemort was not completely gone, but it had lessened now—a dull ache, as opposed to a sharp pain.

Harry opened his eyes and slumped back in his chair, completely drained. He glanced up at Fleur bewildered.

"Remember when I said that pushing someone out of your mind was draining?"

"I remember," Harry groused, running a trembling hand over his forehead. "I didn't think it would knock me on my arse!"

"It's your first time ejecting someone, Harry," Fleur replied gently. "It's not surprising it would be difficult.

"Dobby!" Fleur said, and the excitable little house-elf popped into the room.

"Harry Potter sir!" Dobby cried as soon as he saw Harry's state. "What is happenings to Harry Potter?"

"Harry is fine, Dobby," Fleur responded. "Can you bring us a Pepper Up potion please?"

"Dobby be's doings it, Harry Potter's betrotheds. Dobby be's right back."

The little house-elf popped out and returned within a few moments with the requested potion, which Harry immediately downed, feeling a surge of energy return to his body.

"Thanks, Dobby," he said warmly.

"Dobby be doings anything for the Great Harry Potter Sir!" the little elf exclaimed enthusiastically. "Harry Potter must be callings Dobby for anythings he's be needings. Anythings at all!"

And with that, Dobby popped out, leaving three very bemused humans all smiling at one another.

"Fleur, won't Voldemort feel Harry forcing him out of his mind?" Hermione asked with some concern.

"I don't think so," Fleur responded. "If he was actually trying to force his way into Harry's mind, he undoubtedly would, but I don't think he's even aware that connection exists. Legilimency normally requires a certain amount of concentration, which Voldemort would not be doing through an existing link of this kind. We should be okay.

"But Dumbledore needs to know about this," she said firmly, getting to her feet. "I suggest we go to him now and tell him what has happened."

The three quickly agreed and, gathering their things, they immediately made their way from the classroom and toward the Headmaster's office. Fortunately, they did not meet anyone on the trip. The castle was almost eerily quiet, and though it would be curfew in a few moments, there was still generally some activity even at that late hour. For Harry, the lack of meeting anyone was actually a godsend—the events of the evening had unsettled him and he did not think he was up to casual conversation or tense encounters.

A quick word to the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office and the three teens were on the spiral staircase heading up to the office. They were admitted immediately by the sound of the Headmaster's voice bidding them enter.

"I suppose I should have expected you to show up, Harry," Dumbledore said as he greeted them, peering over the tops of his half moon glasses. He appeared to have been engaged in something, and if the soot on his robes was any indication, he had either been speaking over the Floo with someone, or had just travelled through the device. He appeared weary as he moved around his desk and sat heavily on his chair, looking every moment of his more-than-a-century age.

"Something happened," Harry stated.

"Indeed it has. I assume that Voldemort has made an appearance through your link?"

"A burst of happiness," Harry confirmed. "Like something he wanted or was waiting for had happened."

"Unfortunately, an accurate assessment." Dumbledore sighed and stroked his beard. "What I am about to tell you should not be passed on to anyone of your acquaintance—they will know soon enough, as I am certain the Prophet will jump on this story very quickly.

"It seems Voldemort has achieved what we had feared all along. Earlier tonight there was a break out at Azkaban. All of Voldemort's followers have disappeared from the prison."

"That's not good!" Harry gasped.

"No, but not unexpected," Dumbledore replied. Then he turned and peered at Harry intently. "You have started your Occlumency training, have you not?"

At Harry's nod, he continued. "Please be diligent. This connection between you needs to be closed as soon as possible."

Harry agreed, but focused back on the break out. "What are we going to do about Azkaban?"

"_We_ will do nothing, Harry," was Dumbledore's firm response. "You need to concentrate on what you can do, not on this business with Azkaban. Keep working on your Occlumency and close off your mind. At the same time, continue to work with your club—the training you do now could very well be the difference between victory and defeat."

"But I can't match Voldemort," Harry said, his tone reflecting the glumness he felt at the situation. "He's had years of experience. I'm still just fifteen."

"That is true," Dumbledore kindly replied. "But remember what you are fighting for, Harry. It is not always the more powerful or knowledgeable who prevails—there is something to be said for determination and fighting for a righteous cause. And remember what—and who—you are fighting for. That may make all the difference.

"Now, if you will all excuse me, I believe that I have some work to do. The Minister will no doubt be wishing for some answers, and I would not wish to miss the opportunity to point out that we have been telling him for months that this would happen."

The comment elicited wry smiles from the three teenagers. They stood to leave, and Dumbledore escorted them from his office. "I will see if I can talk some sense into him. Now, the three of you had best get back to Gryffindor common room and turn in for the evening. Remember your Occlumency training, and learn to protect your mind."

The three descended in silence and it was well into their journey back to the common room before anyone spoke. To Harry it seemed like this was the first step in Voldemort's bid to return to power—a long awaited opening move which would ultimately lead to war. He did not know how the Minister would interpret this disaster, but he doubted the man would suddenly have a change of heart and declare that Voldemort was indeed returned. The game was now afoot.

* * *

After two disheartening days of trying to reason with an unreasonable man, Dumbledore stepped from the Floo at Grimmauld Place in a less than congenial mood, knowing that the tenseness of the situation would almost certainly manifest itself in the evening's Order meeting.

The Minister, in short, was completely convinced that he was in the right. Voldemort could not be back—he was known to be dead at Harry Potter's hand all those years ago, and nothing could convince the Minister that it was by his order that the Death Eater prisoners had been released from their cells. The man was infuriating. No amount of persuasion or evidence could convince him of the grave danger which was even now facing them, and he refused to take any sort of action which would shore up their defenses against the onslaught which Voldemort was almost certainly preparing.

Luckily, Madam Bones was not of the same ilk as the Minister. She was quietly increasing patrols and stepping up the training in her department, in accordance with the promise she had made the night of the ball, and though she was not able to make the dramatic hires which were almost undoubtedly required, she was taking action in as direct a manner as she could. The Auror department would certainly be better prepared than had she not begun her preparations, but Albus was privately concerned that the preparations being made would prove to be less than adequate. Unfortunately, the Order would be forced to make up the slack, and it had not been built for combat—the Order was more of an intelligence gathering unit, with perhaps some capability to respond to threats, than anything else, though there were certainly members who were powerful fighters. It was simply not built for pitched battle.

Most of the members of the order had already gathered by the time Albus arrived—Sirius, Minerva, Hagrid, and Severus, had all arrived in advance, and were now waiting with the others, speaking in low tones with the other members present. At least Sirius, Hagrid, and Minerva were—Severus was situated in a dark corner as was his wont and if Albus did not know the man better, he would have sworn Severus was sulking. Suppressing a sigh, Albus turned away and determined to leave the problem of Severus's behavior for another time. There was much more to consider at the present time than a bitter man, even if that man was central to Albus's plans for the defeat of his erstwhile master.

Stepping to the front of the room, Albus surveyed those in attendance. Almost all of the adult members of the Order were present, the most glaring absences, of course, were their younger, newest members. Their exclusion was not a purposeful slight to them, of course, but Albus had decided—after discussing it with Harry and his friends—that unless there were major matters to discuss which would directly affect Harry and his friends, they would not be subjected to routine order meetings. It was just as well—this meeting was not likely to be tranquil, and Harry would benefit far more by concentrating on his studies and preparing himself for what was to come.

The room descended to silence and members took their seats as they noticed that Albus had arrived. "Thank you all for taking time out of your busy schedules to join us today," Albus began. "I believe we should begin the business of the Order."

Taking some time to center himself, Albus took a deep breath and looked out over the crowd. "I believe that we need to begin with the most damaging event of the past week—the Azkaban breakout."

A swell of low murmurings broke out over the room, and Albus could see that this topic had likely dominated the pre-meeting conversation. Unsurprising, really, considering the implications of what Voldemort had engineered.

"First, I believe we should hear from Kingsley regarding this matter. Kingsley, if you will."

The tall man rose to his feet. "There is not much to tell and none of it is good. On Tuesday evening, Death Eaters assaulted Azkaban and freed all of You-Know-Who's supporters from their cells, where they were taken from the island. _All_ of the Death Eaters incarcerated there have been reported to be missing."

"Everyone?" Remus Lupin asked.

"Yes," was Kingley's grim response. A shudder ran through the gathered members—the escape of the Lestranges, Mulciber, and the other assorted Death Eaters was not an inconsequential matter. Bellatrix particularly was known to be a powerful witch, ruthless and of questionable sanity and nonexistent morals. No one in the room was anxious to face her at wand-point, and the rest of the escapees were not much better.

"And what is the status of the prison now?" Albus prompted.

"The prison is still under the control of the warden, and the few prison guards who are normally employed," Kingsley stated. "The Dementors are still present and still guarding the remaining prisoners. It seems clear that they simply stepped aside and allowed the Death Eaters to enter and remove who they wanted."

"And the other prisoners?" Jean-Sebastian asked. "Has anyone else escaped? For that matter, were any of the guards killed in the break out?"

"It seems like the Death Eaters were under orders to simply break their people out and leave. Everyone else was left in their cells, and the guards were not harmed, though they were incapacitated while the escape was taking place."

"That doesn't sound like the work of Death Eaters," Sirius said with a frown. "They normally shoot to kill, and never bother to ask questions."

"I suspect that their orders were due to the benefit they currently enjoy from

Minister Fudge's policies," Albus suggested. "The Ministry obviously cannot cover up the escape itself, but they can try to minimize it. The Dementors are, of course, a matter of great concern, and I hardly think I need to point out that they are now more unreliable than ever. But as the Ministry nominally controls them, and as they are still in residence, Fudge can claim that the breakout was somehow accomplished in spite of their presence. The deaths of the prison guards would have been that much more difficult to cover up."

"So Voldemort leaves the Dementors there, even though he may have bought their allegiance," Sirius stated. "And since there are no deaths to report and Fudge is 'taking measures' to make sure the prison is secured so that this cannot happen again, he can essentially brush it under the rug."

"I believe that adequately sums up the situation, Sirius," Albus confirmed. "Trust me, I have spent many hours in the past two days trying to talk some sense into our esteemed Minister, and I have had no success whatsoever. Minister Fudge feels that he knows the answers, and is not willing to listen to my opinion, despite any evidence to the contrary."

Dumbledore allowed the revelations of the past few moments to sink in. In truth, most of it should not have been a surprise, though perhaps the fact that Voldemort spared the guards at the prison generally flew in the face of his normal operating procedure. But it was a brilliant stratagem, to be certain—Voldemort knew that the Minister claimed he had not returned and was well aware of the man's desire to avoid any unpleasantness, and by managing the breakout in the manner he had, he ensured the Minister would downplay the event, and introduced additional uncertainty into the equation. Were the Dementors actually now allied with Voldemort, or had he merely come to some agreement with them which induced them to step aside while he removed his people from the prison? Albus could not imagine what Voldemort could have tempted them with, if not the souls of his enemies, so it seemed to make sense that he had left them at Azkaban specifically to keep the story from becoming bigger than it already was. The Dementors leaving Azkaban would have prompted hysteria, almost demanding that Fudge do something about it—their continued presence there allowed him to sweep it all under the rug.

In Albus's mind, the only option was to assume the Dementors were no longer under the Ministry's control. He was almost certain that they would eventually start to appear during Death Eater attacks, and though those attacks had been sporadic thus far—mostly limited to the Death Eater favorite "Muggle baiting"—Albus could not fool himself into thinking that there were not more of them on the horizon. No, Voldemort was likely concerning himself more with finding out exactly what the prophecy contained and keeping a low profile for the time being—this breakout signaled that the conflict was likely going to become that much hotter in the coming weeks and months.

"And what of the Minister?" Sirius asked. "What is he trying to blame this incident on?"

It was a valid question as, though the escape had occurred almost two days before, Fudge had as yet resisted making a statement. The prophet was publishing wild theories, blaming everything from rogue Death Eaters—Voldemort was still not an acceptable scapegoat, due to the Ministry's insistence that he had not returned—to foreign sympathizers, to even a small column insisting that Sirius himself had somehow managed to defeat Veritaserum and lie during his trial, and was actually trying to take over the magical world.

"The Minister is being very careful not to give an opinion," Dumbledore replied after a moment. "Even to me he has not suggested an opinion, though I do sense that he is a little put out that your exoneration his removed you as one on whom he could potentially blame for the debacle."

Sirius snorted rather indelicately. "I'm _so sorry_ to have interrupted our esteemed Minister's political scapegoating ambitions. I suppose that is why that story in the Prophet aired." Sirius had been most adamantly _not amused_ when he had seen the article in the Prophet, and it had been no difficult task to deduce that the paper—known as it was to be the propaganda engine for the Ministry, and the Minister in particular—had run the story as an attempt to sow doubt and take the heat from the Minister.

"You're such an easy target, Black," Severus drawled. "Perhaps you should try keeping a low profile. If such a thing is even possible for you."

It was to Sirius's credit that he ignored Severus's words. Albus frowned at the potions master—and was ignored, of course—and he determined that he would likely need to speak with Severus to ask him to curb his disdainful and antagonistic toward the former Marauders, and Sirius in particular. They were all fighting on the same side, and whether Sirius truly believed that Severus was tied firmly to the light, Albus _did_ know it to be the case. As usual, thus far the problem was not the Marauders, but with the Slytherin.

"Something must be done about Fudge, Albus," Sirius stated while glancing around the room, daring anyone to disagree with him. "He is making it bloody impossible to win this war. He's got to go."

A murmur of agreement ran through the room, and Albus had no compunction whatsoever in adding his own agreement to the consensus.

"It is unfortunate that the Minister cannot be persuaded to act for the good of the people. This must be handled delicately."

"Delicately is hardly the word, Albus," Arthur disagreed. "You're speaking of removing a sitting Minister. He would claim treason if he knew what was being discussed in this room."

To Arthur's side, Jean-Sebastian spoke up, his voice stern and authoritative. "No one is suggesting treasonous acts, Arthur. However, the Minister is directly responsible for the lack of preparedness against the Dark Lord's advances. He _must_ be removed."

"Though I still do not have the votes required to oust him, I believe there may be other ways we can utilize to remove him from office, Arthur," Albus interjected, trying to ensure that there were no arguments to interrupt their meeting. It was important to ensure that they stood as one without bickering—Voldemort ensured loyalty in his own followers, and those who opposed him could not hope to defeat him if they were not similarly united. "I shall give some more thought to a plan. It is possible that we may be able to make some of the Minister's less savory acts in office public so as to force him to resign. We will need to consider all angles, including who we prefer to take up the Minister's role when he is finally removed."

No further comments met Albus's statement, and though Arthur still appeared to be a little uneasy—he was a Ministry employee, after all, and Fudge was his direct senior—he did not protest any further. Arthur was a laid back and patient man, but Albus knew that he was intelligent. Arthur obviously knew that the Minister needed to go, but the upright and law-abiding man in him rebelled at the thought of any underhanded or downright illegal activities, even if they would improve the situation. Albus could not fault him for his opinions.

"Now, if we are finished discussing the Azkaban escape and its ramifications, shall we move on to the next item?"

* * *

The rest of the meeting passed without the sparks generated by the opening topic, and if Sirius was to be honest with himself, largely without his knowledge. The matter of the Minister's stupid refusal to see anything beyond the end of his nose infuriated Sirius, and he most wished to have the man in front of him at that moment so that he could rearrange the man's nose so that it would more resemble a smashed pumpkin than a nose.

The fact that his name had once again been brought into the public's mind though Sirius had been very publicly exonerated was just another reason to despise the man. He smelled a rat in that story, as he had stated to Dumbledore, and the rat involved was a very different sort from his erstwhile animagus friend.

The thought of Peter caused an all new form of disgust to make itself known within the confines of Sirius's brain. Peter still evaded his just desserts for the betrayal and murder of Sirius's closest friend, and Sirius was eager to pay the little git back. It would not be pretty—of that Sirius was determined.

At length the meeting adjourned and the members of the Order began to break up, as the dull noise of conversation began to fill the room. Sirius stood and glanced at Moony who had sat at his side.

"Fun times, isn't it?" the werewolf said with a grimace.

"Well you sure haven't changed over the years if you think this is fun," Sirius groused. "I think you should get your head checked, Moony."

"I'll get mine checked if you do the same," Remus replied.

Sirius flashed his friend a brief grin, though he did not respond. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Dumbledore was approaching them, and the expression on his face suggested that he had something serious to discuss with them.

"Sirius, Remus," Albus greeted them before turning to address another order member standing nearby. "Ah, Nymphadora, can you please step over here for a moment?"

"That's Tonks," the young Auror replied good-naturedly, though with a hint of steel in her voice. She did as she was bid, however, and after greeting the two men, turned her attention to the Headmaster. Sirius grinned at her with some amusement—he had enjoyed the limited time he had had to get to know his cousin, and he found her to be intelligent, playful, and a genuinely caring person. Andromeda's stamp on her was easy to see, though Sirius shuddered to think of how she might have turned out had she been born to one of the other two sisters. Actually, he had met Draco, so he figured he knew exactly how she would have turned out.

"Remus, Miss _Tonks_," Dumbledore said, purposefully emphasizing Tonks's last name, as his eyes twinkled with amusement, "I wonder if I might request your assistance in an extremely important matter."

Though the two named were clearly uncertain as to why they had been singled out—and more importantly, why they were singled out _together_—they both immediately indicated their willingness to help wherever required.

"I would like to request your presence at Hogwarts on Sunday for a rather delicate meeting."

Moony appeared genuinely surprised at the Headmaster's request. "A meeting at Hogwarts?" he asked with a frown. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand. Is that the important matter you mentioned? What do you need us for?"

"I am sorry, Remus, but I cannot be more explicit now." The Headmaster glanced around the room and, though there were still many order members present, no one seemed to be paying them any special attention. "Unfortunately, the nature of this meeting must be kept completely confidential, and I cannot speak openly here."

This piqued Sirius's interest—if Dumbledore would not speak of it in a room full of Order members, then it was obviously something not known to the larger group. About the only thing Sirius could think of which would fit in that category was the issue of the horcruxes. Knowing how secretive the Headmaster could be at times, he was not certain why Dumbledore would suddenly shift course and speak of something which was private and critical, but he could not think of anything else.

At his side, Moony and Tonks exchanged glances before Remus responded. "Of course, Headmaster."

A few moments later, they had agreed on the time and Dumbledore left, claiming a prior engagement which demanded his presence, neatly forestalling Sirius's plan to interrogate him on the subject of his proposed meeting. He frowned as he watched Dumbledore walk away, wondering what he was up to.

"So what's going on?"

Moony's question caught Sirius by surprise, but he quickly responded with a shrug. "Sorry, Moony, I have no idea."

"You mean you've been in the castle for two weeks and you _still _haven't managed to ferret all of his secrets out?"

Sirius rolled his eyes at his friend. "I'm working on it. Give me a little time."

"If what I heard of the Marauders is true, then you're slipping, Sirius," Tonks interjected with a teasing smile. "It must have been all those late night dates with that hot therapist you're always talking about."

"I'll ask you not to make fun of me," Sirius responded with mock affront. "I get enough of that from him." He jerked his thumb at Moony, who merely shrugged it off, showing a deliberate nonchalance.

"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough," Sirius continued. "Until then, I think I'll hold off on speculating." He then winked at his friend, who guffawed in response. "If I find out, I'll owl you."

"Find out what?"

The new voice behind him startled Sirius, and he turned to see a small, pretty woman, with hair as black as his own, standing looking at them.

"Hey, Hestia," Tonks said by way of greeting.

The woman peered back at them, one side of her mouth upturned in a half smile. "Hello, and the same to you, Remus." Her eyes shifted to Sirius, and she inspected him unabashedly. "I understand you are Sirius Black?"

"In the flesh," Sirius responded, turning on a little of the old Black charm, while ignoring the snickers from his two companions. "And you are?"

"Hestia Jones," the woman responded. "But you lot still haven't told me what you're trying to find out."

"Just a private matter of a bet between myself and Remus, here," Sirius lied with aplomb. He then regarded Hestia with some speculation. "With that name, can I assume that you're related to Gwenog Jones?"

Hestia rolled her eyes. "Third cousin. You know, it's amazing that everyone asks me that. It's not like Jones is an uncommon name—I don't know why everyone assumes."

"But everyone is right, aren't they?"

A laugh met Sirius's statement. "I guess I can't dispute that. So I understand that you are now teaching at Hogwarts?"

"And heaven help us if the students _actually listen to him_," Remus interjected.

"Hmm… I seem to remember that I'm not the first one of us to have taught at Hogwarts," Sirius pointed out.

"Perhaps," Remus allowed. "But I'm responsible. You'll _never_ be responsible!"

"Well, I think I've had about enough of being the butt end of your jokes, Moony," Sirius responded with a sniff. "If you'll all excuse me, I think I'll head back to the school. I have a long day tomorrow of mentoring our young."

Turning on his heel Sirius walked away, but not before directing a wink at Hestia, who was watching him with some amusement. Behind him he heard Remus and Tonks snickering as he left. Moony had better watch out, Sirius thought—this treatment called for some sort of payback, and his time with the Marauders had left him adept at coming up with suitable forms of revenge.

* * *

On Friday evening about half an hour before curfew, Hermione made her determined way toward the Headmaster's office. She had given a lot of thought on the situation with Harry and the burden he now carried and she wanted to help. There was one thing in particular that she was very good at, and she meant to offer her services to the Headmaster if it would help Harry.

The gargoyle dutifully reported her presence to the occupant of the office stepped aside allowing her to ascend via the spiral staircase which began to move as soon as she stepped on it. She made her way to his office and entered, only to see Professor McGonagall, who was apparently wrapping up some sort of discussion with the Headmaster.

"Hello, Miss Granger," the Transfiguration Professor greeted her as Hermione stepped into the office.

"Professor, Headmaster," Hermione greeted them, suddenly bashful.

"I take it you are not here regarding your capacity as a Prefect, and that my presence is not required?"

"No Professor," Hermione responded.

"Very well, then." She turned to the Headmaster. "If that is all, Albus?"

The Headmaster waved her off. "I believe we are quite finished, Minerva. Thank you for lending me your insight."

McGonagall inclined her head and left the office, leaving Hermione feeling rather uncomfortable sitting in front of the Headmaster's desk, while his keen gaze rested upon her, seemingly sizing her up. Hermione suddenly realized that she had never been to the Headmaster's office by herself, and as she had always been in Harry's company during his not infrequent visits, Dumbledore's attention had always been more upon him. It was more than a little intimidating, if she was to be honest with herself, and she could only hope that under his measuring gaze, she was not found wanting.

"I understand you have a matter to discuss with me, Miss Granger," the Headmaster stated, startling Hermione from her thoughts. The Headmaster could obviously sense that she was ill at ease, for he kindly mirrored her silence and waited for her to gather herself. His consideration restored a measure of her confidence and she was able to focus on her self-appointed task.

"Yes, Headmaster. It's… it's about Harry."

Dumbledore sighed and removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I assure you, Miss Granger, that everything that can be done for your friend is indeed being done."

"I know, Professor," Hermione quickly replied. "I just… I feel that there is something I can do to help. More than I'm doing, that is."

"I do appreciate your offer, Miss Granger. However, you are yet young and we are dealing with very dark magic, to which I will not willingly expose you. You are still a student—a gifted student, yes, but still a student and a young woman. I believe it would be best if you left this to me."

Hermione expected this kind of push back and she had her arguments ready. "With all due respect, Headmaster, you once said that you expected us to be able to add new insight to your deliberations, and I believe this extends to helping Harry defeat Voldemort. I believe I can help."

The next few moments were uncomfortable as the Headmaster watched her, seemingly in thought. The feeling that she was being measured once again crept over her, and she fancied she knew how a mouse felt as it realized the cat was stealthily tracking it.

"What do you propose?" Dumbledore finally asked.

"Just that you allow me to help. I understand that you don't want me to delve into subjects which are too dark. But surely there is some research I could help you with." Hermione paused and smiled. "I've been told in the past that I'm relentless when it comes to researching a subject which interests me."

"And does Harry know that you're here tonight?"

"No, and I'd prefer he didn't find out."

The Headmaster leaned forward in his chair, studying Hermione intensely. Once again she was uncomfortable, as though he was seeing more in her than she cared to show to another person, and for all she knew he had. He was very perceptive, after all, and after many years as an educator, teaching, mentoring, and guiding young people, he had probably learned a few tricks about how to read someone like her.

"Why would you not tell him you would like to help him?" he finally asked.

"He knows I want to help him," Hermione replied, trying to sort out her own thoughts and feelings. "I… This is quite different to me. I know that the Horcrux is in Harry, but we don't know much about it, including how to remove it. I guess I don't want to get his hopes up by telling him."

"A sensible precaution, given the situation. But I can't help but sense there is something else behind your offer."

"I just want to help Harry," Hermione insisted.

"Very commendable." The Headmaster continued to peer at her. "You spend an inordinate amount of time with Mr. Potter—though I suppose you always have—but I can't help but wonder about your feelings, given the fact that he is now betrothed to Miss Delacour."

"My feelings are irrelevant, Sir," said Hermione, beginning to get a little annoyed with his insistence upon this line of questioning.

"Our feelings are part of who we are." Dumbledore leaned back in this chair and clasped his hands together. "If I am to allow you to have access to sensitive information I must know your every motive. Why you want to help, the nature of your feelings for Mr. Potter, the state of your relationship with Miss Delacour—these things are all relevant to the discussion at hand. I have no doubt in your capabilities, as you have proved your competence in that sense many times over."

"But why?" Hermione asked a little plaintively.

"Because it all speaks to your emotional state, as well as your motives. I believe it will also help for you to talk this out—sort out your feelings with the help of another, as it were."

"It's not like I need to do that," Hermione muttered.

"Ah, so you have been speaking with someone," Dumbledore responded with a knowing smile. "Would I be amiss in assuming that your confidante is Miss Delacour?"

Hermione shook her head. Dumbledore smiled again, but he appeared a little distracted, as though weighing something in his mind. At length, he turned back to her and in a gentle voice, began speaking again.

"Miss Granger, does Mr. Potter know the extent of your feelings?"

"We haven't told him yet."

"So that means that you have discussed this with Miss Delacour?" At Hermione's nod he continued. "And I can assume by what you've told me, that she does not resent you for your feelings? You have a much longer history with Mr. Potter than Miss Delacour possesses, after all."

"Fleur was the one who pushed me."

Though Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly, he gave no other overt reaction. "That is perhaps a little… precipitous of Miss Delacour. Still, I suppose I can understand her motivation. It must have been difficult for them both." He peered at Hermione. "Again I will ask you—does Mr. Potter know of your feelings?"

"I am sure he suspects," Hermione replied evasively.

"So you have not told him." Dumbledore sighed and stroked his beard. "Miss Granger, I am going to give you some advice. Admittedly, I am not certain that I am one to speak, as I have had little luck with matters of the heart over the course of my life. However, having served many years at this school, I think that I have been fortunate to gain a certain insight into such things, and I believe I would like to share this with you.

"In short, I think that it is not a good idea for you and Miss Delacour to keep this matter to yourselves. If you harbor feelings for Mr. Potter, don't keep them to yourself. Share them with him. Yes, it is a risk, but I think you risk far more by not speaking up."

"We are going to," Hermione hastened to reply. "We're just waiting for the right opportunity."

"Good. I believe you will not find yourself disappointed. Now, the other matter I must ask you about. I assume you have given this a great deal of thought, but have you spoken with your parents about this?"

Hermione shook her head. "I suppose I do not need to tell you of the obstacles in your path. Your parents may not understand, though I would hope that they will always accept your choices."

"I believe they will."

"That is good. But do not keep it from them too long."

Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore regarded her with a smile on his face. "I believe then that you have answered all of my questions. Contrary to the impression I may have given at the outset of our discussion, I can certainly use your help, Miss Granger."

Relieved, Hermione tentatively smiled in response. "Thank you, sir."

"It is I who should be thanking you. Unfortunately, I cannot devote every waking moment to discover a solution for Harry's dilemma, much as I wish that I could do so. And though I feel guilty, I believe that I must think of the larger picture and concentrate on discovering the objects Voldemort used for his horcruxes, which cuts into my efforts to finding a method of removing the horcrux from Harry. Both are important, but at the moment, I believe that discovering the 'what' supersedes the 'how to remove'.

"Your offer to assist helps in this matter. While there are other plans in the works to discover more of the nature of horcruxes, I believe you can assist in sorting through the knowledge we already possess. I am continuing to acquire books which contain information on the subject of dark magic and horcruxes in particular. If you could concentrate your efforts on discovering how to remove a horcrux, I will work on finding out what items Tom used to create any other horcruxes."

To say that Hermione was ecstatic would be an understatement. She assured him that she was more than willing to assist in whatever manner he thought best. Dumbledore then stood and approached a bookcase situated to the side of the room. He inspected the shelves for a moment before he took several heavy and ancient-looking tomes, and piled them in his arms before he returned and set them down on the desk in front of her. Hermione was not able to glimpse any titles or names, but some of the designs on the sides were intricate, and more than one contained symbols and etchings that to Hermione looked somewhat satanic in nature. If these books were as old as she suspected, they could potentially date back to the time when magicals had been openly religious. If they were, then there no doubt had been elements of magical society who had dabbled in the opposite end of the religious spectrum, much the same as Muggle society still did to this day.

"Now, I believe we can start with these. I have gone through them briefly and I believe that they may contain references to the information we are seeking. All, at the very least, contain references to horcruxes, while I made certain none of them go into any detail about horcrux creation—_that_ is a subject to which I will by no means expose you to.

"In addition, I have also made certain that there are no traps or dark magic on the books. However, I urge you to be cautious—if you find anything which seems to be out of the ordinary, close the book immediately and bring it to me."

Hermione readily agreed to this condition, prompting Dumbledore to continue. "Finally, I will ask you not to share this with anyone—not even Mr. Potter and Miss Delacour. I must have your word on this, or I will not allow you assist me."

"I promise, Headmaster," Hermione solemnly avowed. "I wouldn't want either of them to know about this anyway."

"Good. Now, as for the books themselves…" Dumbledore drew his wand from his robes and began waving his wand in a complex series of motions, all the while chanting under his breath. The books on the desk began to glow as he continued, finally flashing once brightly before the light dissipated, and leaving the books appearing as normally as they ever did.

"There. I have just placed a ward on those books. In essence, it is an attention ward, which will direct attention away from them. You and I are keyed into the ward and will not be affected."

"So others won't be able to see them?"

"Not exactly," Dumbledore corrected. "The books themselves are still visible, but anyone other than you or I will consider them unimportant and beneath their notice. Thus, they will be protected from prying eyes.

"Now, please be careful in your research, and come to me if you find anything." Dumbledore made his way around the desk and, opening one of the drawers in his desk, he pulled out a small slip of parchment. "Keep this with you at all times," he instructed while his scribbled on the parchment. "This is a pass to access the restricted section of the library—you may be able to cross reference some of the material you find in these books."

He straightened and held his hand out, offering the parchment to her, which she took eagerly. She had always wanted access to the restricted section; the bibliophile in her was ecstatic, so much so that she had to consciously remind herself that he had given her the pass for a reason, and would expect that she would not misuse it for the purpose of browsing.

"Be cautious, look only into the sections which pertain to your task, and make certain that you come to me with anything you discover."

"I will. Thank you, Headmaster—I appreciate the chance to help Harry."

"You are most welcome, Miss Granger." The Headmaster smiled at her, eyes twinkling. "In fact, I am very glad that Mr. Potter has such devoted friends. With such friends, I do not see how Voldemort can ever defeat him."

After agreeing with him, Hermione waited while he placed a featherlight charm on her bag—the tomes _were_ very heavy after all!—and left with his final admonishments ringing in her ears. Inside Hermione was excited, though somewhat subdued by the responsibility he had given her. Here was finally a chance to help Harry and though the conversation had been uncomfortable, she knew it had been worth it. She would find a way to help her dearest friend.

* * *

On Sunday evening, Harry walked into the Headmaster's office in the company of his two closest friends, wondering at the summons he had received. It had been a typical weekend—after spending some time relaxing from the efforts of the previous week, interspersed with a few hours completing his homework for the coming week, Harry had anticipated a lazy night in the company of friends. That had been interrupted when Sirius had met them at the entrance to the Great Hall after dinner, telling him that his presence was required in the Headmaster's office.

He was being very mysterious about the whole thing, though he claimed not to know what was going on any more than Harry did himself. Harry suspected that he may know a little more than he let on, but was unable to induce Sirius to cough up any more information, and neither of his companions knew what this was all about either.

In the office, he found to his surprise that not only were Jean-Sebastian and Apolline present, but also Remus and, oddly enough, Tonks had also joined them.

The greetings were made—somewhat enthusiastically for Remus, whom Harry had not seen in some time—and the occupants of the office found their seats. Glancing around the room, Harry noted that the other attendees were clearly in the dark about what was happening, the same as he was himself. Dumbledore, though, appeared to be in a good—if serious—mood, and because he did not appear to be overtly distressed, Harry allowed himself to relax a little. Clearly this would not be another revelation session like he had had at the end of the winter break.

"Thank you all for joining me this evening," Dumbledore said by way of opening the meeting. "I have asked you all to attend this evening to discuss a rather serious matter and to propose a possible method of dealing with it." His gaze swept over the group. "But first, there are some among us who do not know the entirety of the situation," his eyes rested on Remus and Tonks, "and I think an explanation first is warranted."

Dumbledore's eyes met Harry's, and knowing he was asking for permission to discuss the horcrux situation, Harry nodded his head. The Headmaster then proceeded to explain the concept of horcruxes and what they suspected Voldemort may have used to create them, including the number they suspected him of making and the items which had already been confirmed. By the end of his explanation, Remus was holding his head in his hands and Tonks was visibly pale. It was Remus who reacted verbally first.

"We promised to protect him," he stammered. "We've failed."

"We did promise, Moony," Sirius interjected, patting his friend on the back. "But there's nothing we could have done to prevent this, other than to go back in time and not make Wormtail the secret keeper. And that was _my_ decision—you were not involved!"

"Such speculation is truly pointless," Dumbledore interjected. Harry had drawn breath to speak and was neatly interrupted by the Headmaster, something he felt the man had intended. And it was probably for the best—it was better they focus on the solution rather than try to mitigate blame, and though Harry could not say for certain what he had meant to say, it likely would have been something meant to exonerate them all from any blame. Such sentiments were counter-productive—the situation was what it was and it made sense to focus on what to do about it.

"I believe we should concentrate on the matter at hand. There are some actions we can take to try to resolve this situation, and though there are some measures already being taken, I have an idea which may bear fruit. If you are willing, Remus, I could use your assistance to further this endeavor."

"Anything," Remus stated fervently.

"Not much is known of the origins of the horcrux ritual," Dumbledore stated, "and not much is known about the ritual itself. Though Tom Riddle managed to somehow discover the means to do the ritual, whatever resource he used has not been found."

"Do you have any idea where he would have found such information?" Jean-Sebastian asked.

"Unfortunately, I do not. However, what is known is that he created his first here at Hogwarts."

"I don't think there's a section on horcruxes in the restricted section, Albus," Sirius interjected.

"No, there is not. However, it is also known that he found and entered Slytherin's chamber before he created his first horcrux. Though Slytherin was not known to have made any of those vile creations, it is entirely possible that he had some information on them. Whether Voldemort found instructions for completing the ritual, or simply found enough that he was able to piece the rest together is largely irrelevant. I suspect he has either destroyed whatever he did find, or he hid it away.

"What seems obvious, however, is that some information was still available at that time in England, and I'm certain among his other activities, he searched out and destroyed any other references to them he could find. His is the narcissistic type of personality which would want to safeguard such precious information and ensure that no one else could replicate his 'immortality'."

"Does a horcrux actually grant immortality?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "I do not wish to get into a long conversation about the philosophical benefits of having a horcrux, Harry. Suffice it to say that after a fashion the horcrux does grant 'a form' of immortality, but that the price one pays for it is terrible. The salient point is that as long as Voldemort retains a horcrux, his spirit is anchored to this earth, and whether he should die violently or of old age, he could always be brought back by a ritual similar to the one you witnessed last year.

"The advantage we do have," Dumbledore continued, "is that I do have a few references which give me some information on the origin of horcruxes. Unfortunately, it's not enough to pinpoint where to look for a more detailed description, but it does help us specify a general location."

Sitting back in his chair, Dumbledore's voice took on a lecturing tone, one common to educators explaining a point before an audience. Harry surreptitiously glanced around the room. With the exception of the elder Delacours—who were the only ones present who had not attended this school under Dumbledore—those listening had a deferential, and almost awed expression of interest on their faces. It struck Harry just how much influential power this man possessed, not only in his legend and his prowess in both the martial and political arenas, but also due to the fact that he had been the Headmaster to every influential member of British magical society in the past fifty years. There were other schools in England, of course, but Hogwarts was considered the best, and most of those who would become leaders of society would pass through these halls. Suddenly, Harry was very much grateful that this man was on their side.

"The horcrux is an ancient Egyptian spell, dating back to the centuries before Christ during the time of the Pharaohs. It is thought that a Greek by the name of Herpo the Foul—who lived in Lower Egypt at the time—managed to create the first working horcrux, though the history I saw did not specify Herpo as the one who actually invented the magic. It is equally unclear whether the inventor's purpose was originally evil or benign—the nature of the spell suggests it was for evil purposes, but the intentions of the creator may have been very different. If it was Herpo who invented it, then he undoubtedly had evil intentions, as he was known to be a dark wizard of some repute. Regardless, the location at least gives us somewhere to start. If Herpo _was_ the inventor, then he would have done it somewhere in the Nile delta. Even if he did not invent it, I suspect it was likely created somewhere along the Nile, given the composition of the Egyptian empire of antiquity and the fact that most of its inhabitants lived close to the river which gave life to their civilization. Some record of it may still exist if one looks closely enough. It was a spell which was imported to England, after all, and all indications are that it was never well known here. That may be different in Egypt.

"Therefore, I propose that we send some agents to Egypt to search for references. If we are able to find anything, we may be able to piece together a method of removing the horcrux from Harry's scar, or we may find a method which already exists. Either way, I believe we should do more than just search here in England—Egypt may hold the answer."

A surge of hope welled up within Harry as Dumbledore spoke. He had tried to be positive over the past several weeks, and he thought he had largely accepted the situation, but _it was_ wearing on him. This was a potential solution and one which may actually be within reach. It would be difficult, but anything was better than waiting around to heroically die in a final confrontation with Voldemort.

"I presume this is why you asked me to be here, Albus?" Remus asked.

"Indeed it is," the Headmaster confirmed. "I believe that your ties to Harry and your intelligence make you an ideal choice for this mission. In addition, your nature gives you benefits which may be necessary should you run into trouble."

Remus glanced over at Harry, and after a smile appeared on his face, he turned back to the Headmaster and nodded. "I'm in. The only problem I have is that my finances are a little… shaky since I had to leave Hogwarts."

"I will fund this little jaunt," Sirius interjected firmly. "The Blacks have whittled away our fortune for centuries on this Pureblood cause, or that dark lord. It's time it was used for something more positive."

"Very good, Sirius," Dumbledore replied. "I had thought of hiring Remus on to an advisory position in the school in order to fund the mission, but your offer will ease the strain on Hogwarts' finances."

"But what am I here for?" Tonks asked.

"Quite simply, I mean for you to accompany Remus on his mission," Dumbledore said. "Not only will Remus require some backup and assistance, especially at certain times, but your unique abilities make you an obvious choice for this mission."

"You should tell her, Albus," Remus interrupted. "She deserves to know what she will be dealing with."

Tonks merely rolled her eyes. "I already know about your furry little problem and it doesn't bother me."

When Remus turned an accusing eye on Sirius, Tonks laughed and preempted Remus's accusations. "Don't blame my cousin here. I spent time with you both in that hole the Black's called their home and I'm trained to notice things. It wasn't hard to figure it out. Sirius merely confirmed my suspicion."

"What special abilities does Miss Tonks possess?" Jean-Sebastian asked.

"I'm a metamorphmagus," Tonks responded, turning her hair green, before it reverted to its previously brilliant pink hue.

"Useful indeed," Jean-Sebastian replied, though he said nothing further.

"But I do have a slight problem," Tonks continued as she turned to face the Headmaster. "I _do_ have a day job, and I doubt they will let me go for the amount of time this mission is likely to take."

"I have already taken care of that," Dumbledore replied. "Madam Bones has given me the go-ahead and reassigned you to Hogwarts. You are clear, and will continue to receive your pay from the Auror department."

"Does Madam Bones know about all of this?" asked Tonks with a raised eyebrow.

"Not the specifics. I gave her no information about Horcruxes, only that I needed your services for a mission which would assist our efforts against Voldemort. She was not precisely happy about being kept in the dark, but she did accept my explanation."

"Then the only questions are when do we leave and where do we search," said Remus.

"The where, I can only guess. If you cannot find anything in the population centers on the Mediterranean, then I suspect you will need to travel inland along the Nile. Unfortunately, I have no further information for you—who knows what researcher stumbled onto the Horcrux spell, or where he lived at the time. It will likely take patience, not to mention some time to figure out where to look. Even then, you may only come across fragments which we will need to piece together. This is, however, our best chance, I believe."

"Then let's get started," said Remus. "I will need to put my affairs in order, which I assume you will need to do too." Remus turned to look at Tonks who nodded in response. "I would think we could leave by about the end of the week."

The conversation then moved to general discussion regarding Remus and Tonks's upcoming mission, and very soon they were excused, the two to begin their preparations, while Harry, Hermione and Fleur made their way back toward the Gryffindor common room. For Harry, it was a weight lifted off his shoulders. They had a plan, and the future was possibly looking brighter than it had in some time.

* * *

_Update 08/14/2013  
_


	38. Chapter 37 – Three is Not a Crowd

**Previously: **Harry is buffeted by Voldemort's emotions and finds out from Dumbledore that the dark lord's followers have broken out of Azkaban. At the Order meeting, they discuss how the break out happened, and what is being done to apprehend the Death Eaters. Hermione offers to help Dumbledore with his Horcrux research. Dumbledore proposes that they send Remus and Tonks to Egypt to research Horcruxes, which is where the spell was originally developed.

* * *

**Chapter 37 – Three Is a _Not_ a Crowd**

Valentine's Day—or February tenth, which was the closest Hogsmeade weekend to the fourteenth—began in a slightly confusing fashion for Harry. He had been anticipating it since the return to Hogwarts; with his relationship with Fleur having deepened significantly over the break, that Valentine's day would be their first as a couple. Knowing that this was a big moment for a young couple—one that could end up with him in the doghouse if he messed it up—Harry had planned a day which included time alone, stolen kisses, a date in the dreaded teahouse in Hogsmeade, and an evening dinner for two in the Room of Requirement, served by none other than the indefatigable and exuberant Dobby.

It was therefore with a certain amount of anticipation that Harry waited in the common room for his betrothed to appear that Saturday morning. The awkwardness which had existed between them when they had found out about the betrothal was now completely a thing of the past, and Harry's feelings for Fleur were rapidly increasing to the point that he could not imagine her not being in his life. He had not had much experience with love, but he imagined that this is what it would have felt like if he had.

To his great surprise it was not only Fleur who descended on that brisk February morning, but his closest friend was following her, smiling shyly at Harry. Harry looked in askance at Fleur, but the blond just smiled brightly at him, kissed him on the cheek and directed him from the room.

"Let's go, shall we?" she said.

"Umm… sure Fleur," Harry said uncertainly.

To his other side, Hermione flashed him a brilliant smile and took his other arm. The three walked from the common room, never seeing the amused looks they were receiving from their housemates who had not already departed for the village.

As they walked down through the castle toward the entrance, Harry struggled over what to say. It was difficult to speak of what he had planned for that day with Hermione's presence, and he was not sure that Madam Puddifoot's Tea House would be an appropriate destination with their best friend along. Not that missing the tea house would be a loss in Harry's opinion.

"Where did you want to go today?" Harry asked Fleur, trying to give her a significant look.

Fleur either ignored it or completely missed his expression. "I think we can find things to do."

"I'm sure we can, but this is not a normal Hogsmeade weekend."

Even that rather enormous hint did not faze either of the two girls. "No, it certainly isn't," Hermione replied, while Fleur just laughed.

The only thing Harry could do was to respond with the mental equivalent of a shrug and allow himself to be dragged along to the village to spend the day.

As the time progressed, however, Harry began to get a suspicion of what was truly happening, and the fact that he had not cottoned on to it immediately, he could only put down to the cluelessness of most of his sex. Could Hermione finally have made her decision? Thinking back over the previous weeks, Harry tried to determine whether her behavior toward him had changed. It was difficult to be certain; though Hermione was a very private girl, she had always been open and affectionate with him—quick with a hug, or to initiate contact with a hand on the arm, or an arm around his shoulders. She had even kissed his cheek a time or two. Much of this was in the presence of Fleur who, as his betrothed should have taken offense to the liberties the younger girl was taking. She did nothing of the sort, however, merely smiling at the two of them, or taking no notice of what was happening.

It was with this suspicion in mind that Harry allowed himself to be dragged along as they walked through Hogsmeade, the true nature of the situation becoming clearer as they went. While Hermione did not precisely act as he thought a girlfriend would, she still allowed her feelings to show in an understated manner; a buss on the cheek here, holding his hand there, the laughter they shared—it all pointed toward a confirmation of his suspicions. Through it all, Harry responded to them both, deciding that there was nothing to but to sit back and enjoy the ride; he was having too much fun to do otherwise!

After perusing the shops in Hogsmeade, the trio had made their way to the Three Broomsticks for an afternoon snack and some butterbeer. They sat in a booth, but unlike usual, Fleur did not sit beside him; instead she chose to sit across while Hermione sat by his side. As he watched the two of them chatter away, he thought back to the eye opening conversation he had overheard in the express.

Harry had not been idle in the intervening weeks. The revelation about the prophecy and the Horcrux had put a damper on just about any kind of activity, and research into the marriage laws of the magical world had been far down his list of things with which to concern himself. But as he began to put his new knowledge into perspective, he had been able to climb out of his funk. He had spent some time in the library discovering the laws, and was surprised to learn that he was not only able to have another wife (or more), but that as the last of his line it was almost expected, especially given what Fleur had told him concerning Veela propensity to give birth to girls. He still did not fully comprehend the magical world's importance on the continuance of lines—such things were no longer prevalent in the Muggle world, after all—he understood that it was part of the world he lived in.

To be honest, Harry still could not decide how he felt about the whole thing. On the one hand, he could imagine what most of the Muggle world would say about such an arrangement; the Dursleys' elderly pastor—the Dursleys only had enough religious conviction in them to make sure they kept up appearances at Christmas and Easter—would likely have a heart attack if he knew. Given his burgeoning feelings for his betrothed, it also seemed like a betrayal of her to even consider such a thing.

On the other hand, Fleur seemed to be fine with the situation, and even seemed to be encouraging Hermione. And if Harry was to give consideration to having a second wife, he admitted that his best friend would almost certainly be the first girl on his list. At this point he could hardly imagine denying either of the two girls anything they wanted.

The day continued with Hermione and Fleur and by the time they had returned to the castle, Harry was convinced that they were attempting to lead him subtly to the conclusion that Hermione should be considered as a romantic possibility. When they adjourned to their dorms to dress for the evening in the Room of Requirement, Hermione's inclusion in what was supposed to be a romantic dinner for two confirmed what they were up to. He just did not know exactly how he should react to it.

The fact of the matter was that he found that though he was not certain if he loved his best friend at the moment in a romantic sort of way, he was well aware of how easy it would be to do so if he just allowed himself to let go. He and Hermione were suited very well in so many ways, and if Fleur had not been in the picture, he imagined that Hermione would have been at the top of list of potential interests. That was not in question.

What was in question was the aforementioned loyalty to Fleur, regardless of the fact that she seemed to be encouraging this. The Dursleys had not made much effort in any respect to bring him up properly, but regardless he had always assumed that he would marry one woman. The thought of two was both intriguing and downright intimidating. How would he behave around them? Would one become jealous if he showed attention to the other? What about intimacies and future children? All of these questions rolled around in Harry's head as he dressed for dinner, thankful at the same time that his dorm mates were not present to tease him about his date that evening.

As Harry made his way to the Room of Requirement he decided he would just go with the flow—there was nothing that said what happened that night had to be forever, after all. They were still young and it was possible that they would both change their minds at some later time. As far as he was concerned, he would be happy with just Fleur, or with Hermione too, if it came to that. He imagined that some would question his manliness for not seizing the opportunity with both hands—Ron would almost certainly tease him for it—but for Harry, the happiness of the two most important ladies in his life was paramount. He would allow them to lead, at least the initial stages of the discussion.

The room was decorated in a romantic fashion, with low lighting, a table set for three, and candles adding to the ambience. On a table by the side of the door sat two roses, rather than the one he had requested from the hyperactive house-elf, with white petals delicately edged in a deep crimson. Harry did not know what they meant, not understanding the language of flowers that most women seemed to understand instinctively, but he knew that giving roses to your girlfriend was something which would get you in their good books. Obviously Dobby had had a hand in this, likely on orders from Hermione, or Fleur, or both. Something clicked in the back of Harry's mind, but before he could call Dobby to confirm, the door to the room opened and in walked the two girls.

They were both dressed in skirts and blouses and looked particularly fetching, in Harry's opinion. And even though Fleur glowed with the vibrant beauty which her Veela nature blessed her, Harry found that Hermione did not suffer at all in comparison. Her much tamed locks fell in ringlets down her back, a contrast to Fleur's straight tresses, and both girls wore a light dusting of makeup—thankfully only a little, as Harry felt that their natural looks required very little enhancement.

"Good evening ladies," Harry said with a slight bow, through a suddenly dry mouth.

The girls smiled at him and approaching hugged him in turn, murmuring greetings through soft kisses on his cheeks. Harry stepped back and gazed at them in turn, looking into the depths of Fleur's ice blue eyes, searching them for any hint of her plans, while watching Hermione for an explicit indication of her current feelings. Both girls appeared much as they normally would, Fleur's expression indicating her growing feelings—feelings which he shared—and Hermione's a confirmation of all they had come to mean to each other over the years.

Breaking the momentary spell which seemed to have settled over them, Harry stepped back and, gathering the two roses in his hands, extended one to each of the women. "Dobby seems to have anticipated the need for two roses tonight." His words were light, but contained an implied question which he knew his two companions would not miss. "I'm sorry, but I'm not familiar with the language of flowers, so I can't tell you what they mean."

The two girls giggled at him and shared a glance—it was clear that they had completely understood his unspoken question. "Silly, we wouldn't have expected you to," Fleur said. "A white and red rose symbolizes unity."

Ever more confident that his suppositions were correct, Harry nodded and allowed Fleur to continue to speak. "Actually, Harry, there was something we wanted to talk to you about tonight. I think it's best to handle it before dinner."

Smiling, Harry took each girl's hand in one of his own and led them to a nearby sofa, sitting between them. It was an awkward sort of arrangement which required him to swivel his head from side to side depending on which one of his companions was speaking, but Harry wanted to be near them both if his suspicions were about to be proven correct.

The mood became suddenly tense as Fleur drew breath and paused, no doubt trying to determine how to say what she wanted to say. Harry watched her struggle for the words, and had just about decided to intervene and tell her what he knew when she sighed and darted a quick glance at Hermione before turning to Harry.

"Harry, I want you to know that you have far exceeded any expectations I had when we became betrothed. Mama and Papa have always worried about Gabrielle and me—that we would find good men to marry. I know that you have put their worries to rest."

Just managing to avoid trying to be funny and saying something stupid like, "I love you too, but isn't three a crowd?" Harry instead smiled at her and said, "I feel the same way, Fleur. You and I had a bit of a rocky start at the tournament last year, but I have come to know you as the wonderful person you are. I consider myself lucky."

"You have been wonderful," Fleur responded with a brilliant smile. "I just wanted you to know that every expectation I had has been exceeded."

"I feel the same."

Taking a deep breath, Fleur fixed him with her gaze and said, "Thank you, Harry. I feel very strongly about you and I know you feel the same about me. But I want you to know that though this betrothal was not chosen by either of us, I've always felt like I was taking something special from you."

"Fleur—" Harry began before he was cut off.

"No Harry—please hear me out."

Nodding, Harry held his tongue, though inside the words were fighting to escape. He did not want her to feel this way—neither of them had chosen this, after all, and there was no blame to pass around. And though he now knew for certain she was speaking of his relationship with Hermione, he did not want this to be about what could have been between them. Rather, he wanted to come together with Hermione by mutual consent, admiration, and love, much the same as he felt he was in the process of achieving with Fleur.

"Whether you recognized it yourself," Fleur continued, "I have always sensed that you share a special connection and relationship with Hermione. And though I know you are aware of that relationship, I have always felt that your relationship with each other had the potential to develop into something more meaningful.

"I want you to be happy, Harry," Fleur continued, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, "and though I know you would be happy with me, I believe that that happiness would be complete if you were also to accept Hermione."

Silence descended between them, and Harry reaching out and drew Fleur to his side, embracing her tightly. He was aware that on some level this was costing her a great deal. But this offer of hers would only work if she was completely committed to this and accepted what it would mean—if she was in any way nervous or uncertain, he would refuse it—he owed that to her.

On the other hand, Harry was fully aware of the priceless gift which was being given to him by her selfless action. Harry had acknowledged his feelings for Hermione some time ago, and he knew that they could become a great couple. Hermione was everything he admired—smart, pretty, vivacious, and possessing a noble streak which prompted her to involve herself in the causes of others. She truly brought out the best in those around her with her every action.

"I want you to know that I am truly flattered," Harry responded. "And I want you to know that I believe I can be happy with either or both of you. But I also want to make sure that you both want this and accept what it means." Harry turned to Hermione, who was peering at him curiously. "You've obviously thought about this for a while. Are you reconciled to the obstacles? Will your parents understand?"

"I believe they will eventually," Hermione replied with a slight blush. "They will want to know that it's what I want and I will be happy. My dad might even have a few threats to pass on to you." She smiled mischievously. "Don't worry too much—it's a rite of passage that all fathers have to try to intimidate their little girls' suitors."

Harry laughed and nodded his head, before turning to Fleur. "And I want to know that _you_ want this, Fleur. You and I are betrothed—nothing can change that. Sorry, Hermione," he said with a glance back at his best friend, "but if you're not fully committed to this, then I will be more than contented to remain with you and you alone."

Fleur and Hermione looked at each other and smiled. "That's exactly what we both expected, Harry," Fleur told him.

However, Hermione was frowning at him, a clear indication that something was bothering her. "Harry, you're acting like this isn't a surprise. Shouldn't you at least be asking if this is even _possible?_"

Sheepishly, Harry ducked his head. "I already know."

When neither girl said anything, Harry glanced up and saw them watching him incredulously.

"What do you know?" Hermione voiced the obvious question.

"I know that there is a possibility for two wives, and I knew that you were thinking of this."

"How?" Hermione's expression was flinty by this point, and Fleur was watching him through narrowed eyes.

"Well… I happened to… overhear you," Harry managed. "On the train back to London for winter hols."

"You overheard and yet you said nothing?" Fleur's outrage was clear in the rapidly rising tone of her voice.

"I thought it would be better to let Hermione work through this on her own," Harry protested. "I did some research and found out that I can have more than one wife. I just didn't want to push her."

Harry was beginning to get nervous. The two women were looking at him with something akin to outrage and annoyance, and this was certainly not how Harry had envisioned this conversation proceeding. Had he made a mistake in keeping this to himself rather than approaching them with what he had overheard?

All at once Fleur and Hermione looked at each other and exchanged a nod. Then with devious smiles they turned back to Harry. Big fluffy pillows appeared in their hands and they began beating him about the head with them, all the while screeching and laughing that they would get him for his temerity.

"I can't believe you!" Fleur's voice rang out, accompanied by Hermione's, "Ooh, you're going to pay for this!"

Laughing hysterically, Harry ducked under their repeated blows and rolled onto the floor with the two ladies hot in pursuit. He willed the room to provide him with the means to defend himself, and began swinging his own pillow back at them in earnest once it appeared in his hand. Still, he did not fare well against them as they appeared determined to make him pay, splitting up so they could come at him from both sides.

This continued until Hermione's pillow exploded in a cloud of feathers after a particularly vicious swing hit him in the back of the head. Harry retaliated by attacking the now defenseless Hermione with reckless abandon, until his own pillow joined hers in filling the air with feathers. His sides beginning to ache from laughing, Harry slipped on a mass of feathers and he went down in a heap. He was soon joined by Hermione and Fleur, who were struggling to contain their own banshee like laughter.

As the feathers began to settle, Harry gained control of his own breathing, and he gazed at the ladies' bright eyes and complexions, and at the feathers which had settled in their hair, and thinking that they had never been so beautiful before in their joy and laughter.

Acting on a sudden impulse of the moment, Harry leaned forward and after meeting Hermione's eyes and fancying he saw acceptance, crossed the final few inches and kissed her. He felt Hermione respond and the kiss immediately deepened further than Harry's first kiss with Fleur had several months before, their tongues dueling lightly with each other. When they broke apart breathlessly and gazed into one another's eyes, Harry could see all the love, acceptance, and contentment for which he had been searching his entire life.

To his side he felt Fleur move closer and turning his head, he found his lips claimed by Fleur's, and he was lost in the sensation of kissing his beautiful betrothed. Finally, Harry had to break apart from Fleur, as he gasped for breath, idly thinking that if a man were to die from asphyxiation, there was no better way to do it than to be kissed to death by two beautiful women. The three gazed at one other with some wonder. Of specific note for Harry was the fact that neither of his companions showed the slightest bit of jealousy for the other, a fact which boded well for the future.

"You said we broke him at the Yule Ball," Fleur's voice intruded in his reverie, and he looked up to find the two girls—both breathing heavily—watching him with amusement, "but I'm pretty sure we just reduced his brain to jelly."

Hermione laughed before she turned and punched Harry lightly on the shoulder. "I can't believe you didn't tell us."

"Like I said," Harry replied between heaving breaths, "I thought it was best that you figure it out for yourself. You seemed like you were having difficulty working it out and I didn't want to muddy things up for you."

Hermione appeared thoughtful for a few moments before she conceded, "It's probably better that you handled it that way." She then fixed a playfully stern glare at him. "But just because I allowed it this time, don't think that I won't make you pay next time you keep something from us."

"Of that I have no doubt." Harry then sobered and he gazed at both of them in turn. "But I meant what I said. We all need to be committed for this to work. I know that we are still young and things could change, but I don't want our friendship to be affected."

"It won't," Hermione promised. "And I think it will work."

"I know it will work," Harry said, flashing a smile. "I just don't want there to be any hurt feelings later. There is only one of me, you know."

"I think we all know what we're getting into, Harry," interjected Fleur. "You're right—we'll have to be careful, but I know that we can do this."

Smiling broadly, Harry gave both of the girls a kiss on the cheek before he rose and helped them up. The feathers and what was left of the pillows instantly disappeared due to his mental request to the room, and taking each of the girls' hands he led them to the table and sat them each at their seats before taking his own. An instant later the first course of their meal appeared in the form of a crispy tossed salad.

Reminded of his earlier thought, Harry looked at both girls before calling, "Dobby!"

The excitable house-elf popped in immediately. He was wearing what could only be termed as a butler's uniform that evening—black pants, white shirt, and a black coat with long tails, the ensemble completed by a white bow tie and shiny black shoes. The only incongruous part of his outfit was the mismatched socks—bright red and neon green—which peaked out from underneath his pants. Harry wondered where he had gotten his attire, but then decided it was pointless to ask; instead, he focused on his original question.

"Yes, Master Harry Potter Sir?" Dobby asked with a pure excitement that Harry found very amusing. "What can Dobby be doings for you?"

"I just wanted to thank you for this evening, Dobby. It looks like you went to a lot of trouble for this."

"Oh, it is beings no trouble for Dobby," the house-elf replied with wide eyes. "Dobby is thanking Master Harry Potter Sir for thankings Dobby. Master Harry Potter Sir is great master for remembering Dobby. Most wizards not be thanking house-elves."

"Well this wizard will be thanking Dobby," Harry replied firmly. "Where I come, you thank people who help."

A large tear welled up in Dobby's eye. "That is what is makings Harry Potter Sir such a great wizard."

"It's nothing, Dobby," Harry hastened to say. Aware that this could continue all night if he allowed it, Harry forged on with his original question. "I was wondering something, Dobby."

"Yes, Master Harry Potter Sir?"

"When you brought me a pepper-up potion that night last month, you called Hermione and Fleur my 'betrotheds.' What did you mean by that?"

Dobby's ears immediately drooped and his face fell. "Did Dobby be doings something wrong?" he asked rather plaintively.

"No, not at all!" Harry once again assured him. "I was just curious."

His ears perked up and apparently mollified that he was not about to be scolded, Dobby's brow furrowed in thought. "Dobby be's thinking that Harry Potter and Harry Potter's Mione is being closer than just friends. Harry Potter already has betrothed, but Harry Potter is a great wizard, and may have more than one betrotheds. Harry Potter and his Mione act like they is betrothed. Was Dobby wrong?"

Harry shared a glance with Hermione, before he leaned forward and patted the house-elf's back. "No Dobby, though maybe you saw it before we were willing to admit it."

"Then Dobby was right?" the house-elf asked hopefully.

"Yes you were."

"But please keep it to yourself," Hermione said with a glance at Harry. "I would like to keep it between us for now."

"Dobby be's doing that! Dobby keeps Master Harry Potter and his Mione and Flower's secrets. Dobby is a good elf!"

With that, the hyperactive fellow popped away, leaving them to their dinner. Before they started eating, however, Hermione turned to Harry with apology written all over her face.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said quietly, "but I'm likely to get a lot of flak, and that does not even mention the fact some won't like me being with their golden boy because I'm a Muggleborn."

"So you want to keep it a secret?" Harry asked. To be honest, he was feeling a little taken aback by such a notion. She wanted to be with him, and yet she wanted to hide it from the rest of the world?

"Harry," Fleur interjected, "you have to understand this from Hermione's point of view. She is in an awkward place—most of the Wizarding world understands that you may have additional wives. My place is secure because we are under a contracted betrothal. Hermione has no such protection."

"And even more than that, Harry," said Hermione, "I think my parents have the right to know about this officially before anyone else. It's going to be difficult enough to tell them as it is without them finding out that practically everyone in the Wizarding world knew before they did. You know that's what will happen if people like Parvati and Lavender get wind of this."

Mollified, Harry had to admit that she had a point. He reached out and grasped Hermione's hand and smiled at her in understanding. "That's fine, Hermione. But what will you tell everyone else?"

"Don't tell them anything," said Fleur with a shrug. "Let them guess, if it really means that much to them. Hermione certainly doesn't owe any of them anything. And I really don't think that anyone will notice anything if you just continue to behave the way you always have."

With a smile Harry turned to his meal and the three ate their dinner, talking quietly with each other. The dinner was a success, and the time spent with the two girls was everything he imagined it could be. And the kisses at the end of the evening were not unwelcome either.

* * *

The next day, Hermione walked through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, her steps light and joyful in the rush of requited love. Oh, she had not said the words to Harry yet and he had not either, but she fancied that they both knew what the other was feeling. It was a heady feeling, and one which had caused her to act uncharacteristically distracted that day. She had had to force herself to concentrate on just about everything she did the entire day. Luckily, it was a Sunday and her attendance was not required at class. It was just as well as she likely would not have been able to pay any attention anyway.

Toward Sunday evening, however, she was able to force distraction away, and she began to focus on the research the Headmaster had given her with renewed determination—there had to be some way to remove the Horcrux from Harry's scar, and she would do anything she could to ensure that she found it. While Harry and Fleur were relaxing in the common room, Hermione gave an excuse of wanting to find something in the library and left to the amused grins of her friends, shooing them back to their relaxation playfully when they offered to accompany her. Unfortunately, her cross-referencing did not turn up the information she was hoping to find, but that only made her more determined.

It was only a few moments to curfew when she stepped from the library, Madam Pince's admonishment to hurry back to her common room ringing in her ears. As she walked, she considered the dilemma. Thus far, her research was still in its initial stages, and though she had found references in each of the books she had thus far been able to study, there was nothing in the restricted section which either confirmed or contradicted what she had found.

The books themselves were maddeningly vague, most containing only a few phrases, either describing Horcruxes, or largely anecdotal tales concerning those who had created them, or the objects they had used. It seemed that those who made them were generally megalomaniacal, egotistical, and narcissistic in the extreme—in short, almost carbon copies of Voldemort himself. Generally, they chose objects of great personal significance, or those of significance to the world, and their Horcruxes were almost trophies in the reverence they were shown.

Beyond that information, however, there was precious little of any use in the references which she had read thus far. There was nothing on Horcrux creation; of that she was grateful—given the heinous nature of what it was meant to accomplish—she did not doubt that the description of actually creating a Horcrux—the ritual, rather than the murder that served as the catalyst, which was horrific enough—would cause nightmares at the very least. Likewise, there was nothing which suggested any means of removing a Horcrux from a host—generally, it seemed, Horcruxes were created from inanimate, though magical, objects, and the only means of dealing with them seemed to be the destruction of the vessel, obviously something which would not work in Harry's case.

As part of the creation of a Horcrux, the object used was rendered nearly impervious to damage. The reference she was able to find listed only basilisk venom and fiendfyre as substances powerful and magical enough to destroy one. Another reference suggested that there was anecdotal evidence that a killing curse could also be used to destroy a Horcrux, but even the author, who admitted to never actually coming in contact with a real Horcrux, was careful to point out the fact that this was supposition and conjecture, rather than actual fact.

This was why Hermione spent her evening in the library—digging for more information on the exact nature of fiendfyre and basilisk venom, in the hope that they could be adapted to use in destroying the Horcrux in Harry. The fact that Harry had been bitten by the basilisk in the chamber and the Horcrux had not been destroyed seemed to belie this supposition, at least in the case of basilisk venom, but Hermione was not about to leave any stone unturned. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be found, as both methods appeared to be highly dangerous and extremely resistant to outside forces. Fiendfyre was notoriously difficult for even a powerful caster to control, while basilisk venom was so toxic that it killed in minutes and required specially impervioused glass bottles in which to store it. Anything else and it would eat through its container, causing damage to anything it touched, and death if it came into contact with any living creature.

It did not appear that those two avenues had any adaptation which would allow them to be used to help Harry, but Hermione thought she would write up a short report on her research, suggesting that further experimentation on the two substances be conducted to determine if they were able to be utilized. She did not have any answers herself, but Professor Dumbledore, with his greater experience and knowledge, might be able to work further with her ideas.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?"

A voice startled Hermione from her thoughts and she stopped and looked around, to see Malfoy, leaning against the wall, and watching her with glittering eyes. The ponce had largely left them alone since their return to Hogwarts, though she had often noticed him watching with keen eyes and a disdainful glare. Whether he had been told to stand down by his father and potentially Voldemort himself Hermione was not certain, but his sudden appearance was unnerving. She would need to pay attention to what she was doing and not lose herself in her thoughts—the halls of Hogwarts could not be considered safe while Malfoy walked them.

"Out past curfew, are we Granger?"

"It's just _before_ curfew, for your information," Hermione retorted. "Where's Parkinson, anyway? Aren't her lips generally attached to your arse?"

"She's taking care of a couple of Hufflepuffs we found in a broom closet," he said offhandedly. "But as for you, I'm afraid I'll have to take points away and give you a detention."

Hermione rolled her eyes and snorted with derision. "Perhaps you haven't read the handbook, but prefects can't take points away from other prefects, and only the Head Boy and Girl can hand out detentions."

"So what about the rules?" The Slytherin was openly glowering at her now. "You shouldn't even be a prefect, you filthy Mudblood. In fact, cattle like you shouldn't even be in this school. You sully this proud institution with your very presence!"

"You keep on telling yourself that," Hermione said in a dismissive tone of voice, as she walked away. "I'm heading back to the Gryffindor common room."

As she moved, Hermione surreptitiously gripped her wand in her pocket, and hearing his sudden movement she stepped to the side and yelled, "_Protego!_" even as he cast his curse. The tripping jinx splashed harmlessly against her shield, but Hermione was already moving and casting at the same time.

"_Stupefy! Expelliarmus!_" she shouted in rapid succession.

The first spell had him moving, but she correctly guessed he would dodge to the left, so her disarming spell forced the wand from his hand. Then, as an afterthought, she hit him with a stinging hex on the hip, consciously aiming a little away from his groin as a warning shot. He yelped with pain, slipped on the flagstones, and went down, but Hermione had already turned her attention away from him. Instead she flicked her wand and attached his wand to the wall, up near the ceiling, with a sticking charm.

"There," she told him with a smirk. "Go find Parkinson. If she's at all competent, maybe she can get it down for you."

"You'll pay for this, Mudblood," he exclaimed, still holding his hand to his hip where she had hit him.

"Just as soon as daddy hears about it, I suppose," Hermione jibed. "I'll point out that you've been outclassed once again. Maybe if you practiced as much as you boast, you'd actually have some skill. I guess it's just too easy to call on daddy and let him fight your battles for you."

She then turned on her heel and sauntered away from him. He did not say anything further, but she could almost feel his eyes drilling holes in her back.

* * *

The next morning Harry stalked through the halls of Hogwarts, eyes searching for a certain git, intent upon making very clear the trouble that awaited him if he did not curb certain behaviors. Behind him Fleur, Hermione, Ron, and some of their other friends followed in a show of house solidarity.

The previous evening when Hermione had returned from the library with her tale of how she had been confronted by Malfoy, Harry, with a newly heightened feeling of protection for the brunette witch—no doubt due to their newly changed status—had determined that Malfoy would not be allowed to get away with his behavior any longer. That was not to say that Hermione agreed with what he was about to do.

"I handled him, Harry," she had said with some exasperation, once he had made his intentions known. "I've always been able to best him, even before you started teaching us. There's no need to go after him."

"On the contrary," Harry had growled with some annoyance, "he continues to play the git, and he tries it on you when you're alone. I'm just going to make sure he understands the world of pain that awaits him if he keeps on pushing."

Hermione had in the end reluctantly agreed with him, and Harry was bolstered by the fact that just about every member of the house who had been present—including all of the club members—had agreed with him. Not that their disapproval would have stopped him in any case. Though it was true that Malfoy had largely left them alone since the return to Hogwarts, it should be made clear to him that a return to his previous behavior would not be tolerated.

Near the Great Hall was where Harry finally spotted the ponce. He was strutting through the hallways as though he owned the place, his sycophants and hangers on following in his footsteps. But if the thunderous expression on his face was any indication, he was in high dudgeon over something. Grinning darkly, Harry altered his course, thinking that his mood was undoubtedly because of what Hermione had done with his wand. Marching up to the Pureblood, Harry glared at him with all the considerable dislike he could muster.

"The Great Hall is that way, Potter," the git said with a pointed finger. "That is, in case you're having trouble finding it."

"I heard about your little confrontation last night with Hermione," Harry snarled. "I'm only going to say this once, Ferret; if you know what's good for you, you'll leave Hermione and all my other friends alone."

Harry had to admit the Slytherin hid his reaction well, but Harry could immediately detect the flicker of fear in his eyes. Outwardly, however, he betrayed no reaction.  
"Or what?" he drawled, not even bothering to deny what happened the previous evening.

"Let's just say you won't like the consequences," Harry rejoined.

"As if you could touch me," Malfoy snorted. "You don't seem to understand, Potter, but I'll put it down to you being an inferior Halfblood. I'm a Malfoy and the Pureblood heir to a powerful house. I have power that you could not even dream of."

Harry rolled his eyes and glared at the ponce with disdain. "You're delusional about the extent of daddy's power and you need a history lesson to boot. The Potters were a noble family in England when the Malfoys were still buggering sheep in the French countryside!"

"You know, I think they might still do that," one of the twins piped up.

"It would certainly explain a few things," chimed in the other.

"But what do the Malfoy women do?" the first twin asked, seemingly deep in thought. "It would have to be the opposite due to the equipment involved—"

"Ew!" several of the girls present cried, even as Hermione exclaimed, "Would you two stop it? Way to ruin our breakfast!"

"No problem," the second twin said with an outrageous grin.

"Happy to be of service!" said the other.

Harry watched Malfoy throughout the exchange, and by the end of it, Harry thought his head was about to explode given how red his face had become. Harry would not let him get started—he wanted to make it absolutely clear to what end his actions would bring him. "You should remember, Ferret, that my social standing is not only _higher_ than yours, but that I also have faced Voldyshorts four times and have come away with no less than a draw every time. If you think you'd be a challenge after the jumped up dark tosser whose arse you lavish with your attention, then you're stupider than I thought. I suggest you leave me and my friends alone. Your father won't be able to save you from the beat down I will give you if you bother Hermione any more."

The face off was attracting a lot of attention, and Harry saw the Slytherin members of the club enter from the side of the entrance hall, and various other students were now standing around them, watching the confrontation and murmuring amongst themselves. Harry kept his focus on the blond Slytherin, however, noting that his face now almost resembled an overripe tomato, and his hand seemed to be inching toward his wand, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he and his five goons were heavily outnumbered by the gathered Gryffindors. It was, perhaps, for the best that the confrontation was interrupted.

"What is the meaning of this?" a smooth voice rang out over the potential battlefield.

Harry turned and addressed the potions master who was striding toward them. "Just having a little chat with Malfoy here. He needed a few things explained to him."

Halting in front of the two groups, Snape glanced at Malfoy, who now gave every appearance of standing down, though his eyes, hard like agates, were still fixed on Harry. The black bat then turned his attention on Harry and fixed him with a withering glare. "Do you not have somewhere else to be? I'll have you in detention if you do not cease this behavior."

"I'll gladly leave," Harry snapped in response. "The stench is beginning to get to me anyway." He turned to leave, but stopped and looked at Snape, every iota of his contempt projected through his disdainful glare. "It's well known that you will protect your house no matter how poorly they behave, but I suggest your rein the Ferret in before I neuter him."

With that, Harry stalked away toward the Great Hall, his friends on his heels. And though he might have expected the potions master to call him out for his words, Snape said nothing.

* * *

"Another dead end?"

Sighing, Remus nodded and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. The search for information regarding Horcruxes had stretched into its third week, and they were literally no closer to success than they had been when they arrived in Egypt. And it did not help that the full moon had occurred a few days previous, which always left him irritable and aching. Remus was trying to remain positive, but it was difficult—Harry's life was at stake.

"Well then, what now Wolfie?"

Attempting a smile—which he knew probably came out as more of a grimace than anything else—Remus shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes. Tonks had been a great help on this mission, her abilities giving them access at times to places and information which may not have been accessible otherwise. Her irrepressible good humor and sunny disposition was also a boon and a contrast to Remus, who tended more towards the morose, but her predilection to joke about everything and anything was also wearing at times, even while it often cheered him up.

But thus far, their mission had been a complete failure. To be fair, Remus had always known that it would not be a simple endeavor. The nature of the information for which they were searching was such that any intelligent and moral being would try to see it suppressed, if not destroyed. It was not merely a matter of walking into a library and picking up a book. Remus almost laughed at the thought that such a book could exist. No, this would be much more difficult and time consuming—time that Remus was not certain they had.

What was most disheartening of their time here thus far was the complete and utter lack of any mention whatsoever of even the word Horcrux. If the spell had truly been developed in ancient Egypt, Remus would have thought that some mention could be found of it, even if the information was not easily located. But they had found nothing—not even a whisper that it had ever existed here. If Remus did not know Albus better, he would have thought that the Headmaster was mistaken and that they were looking in the wrong area of the world. But he had shown them references before they left Britain which confirmed that what there were looking for could be found here.

"Looks like Bill was right," Remus said simply, opening his eyes. Tonks was watching him carefully, sitting in a chair on the side of the room. They had decided to share a room, as it would be better not to be separated should their activities and inquiries result in some interest from hostile groups, not that Remus knew of any such organizations. The room was sparse yet comfortable, and the air was warm and dry, though certainly the February warmth was nothing like the heat which would descend upon the city once the summer months arrived.

"And Bill was certain of his information?"

"Absolutely."

Once their mission had been assigned, Dumbledore's first suggestion in private to Remus had been to approach Bill Weasley, who had worked as a curse breaker in Egypt for Gringotts, for any information he could impart. Bill, though he could not share the nature of the sites or treasures he had worked on securing, was nevertheless able to tell Remus of some of the areas they would be travelling, and the local customs they would need to follow. Unfortunately, he had not been able to give them any insight into the one thing in which they were truly interested.

* * *

"Horcruxes you say?" Bill asked stroking his chin.

"Yes, and you need to keep it quiet, Bill," Remus responded.

Bill regarded him intently. "Can I assume that's how You-Know-Who was able to come back?"

"So you do know something?" Remus responded, consciously not acknowledging the other man's question.

It was a moment longer before Bill answered. "Soul container. Siphon off a portion of your soul into an object and you cannot pass on while it exists. In certain ancient societies fanatical followers were trained in rituals to unite the existing soul back with a constructed body to return their masters to life."

"Do you know anything else?" Remus asked eagerly.

Bill gave him a pointed look. "I don't really _want_ to know anything else. They sound terrible enough to me."

"Fine, fine. But I need to know what you've heard about them."

"So, you're going to Egypt to research this?" Bill asked.

"Apparently, that's where I'm most likely to find the answers we need."

Shaking his head, Bill replied, "Well, I've largely worked in Egypt, as you know. I've heard of other curse breakers who have come across Horcruxes in the jungles of central and southern Africa, in some of the islands of Oceana, and even in some of the Central American countries—particularly near some of the archaeological sites around the pyramids in Mexico. But I've never come across one myself in Egypt, and I've never heard of anyone else doing so either."

Frowning, Remus regarded the other man. "But Dumbledore is certain it's originally an ancient Egyptian spell. I was considering asking you to go along as I figured you'd either come across them, or had some information about them. At the very least, I thought you would be useful in your knowledge of the culture."

Bill smiled. "Dumbledore already asked me about my availability. Sorry, but I really can't take the time off, and being reassigned is out of the question. The goblins were none too happy with me when I requested a transfer back to London in the first place. But if you're going looking for Horcruxes, all I can tell you is what I've heard of them. Most Horcruxes seem to be inert, especially if they've sat around for centuries. Usually, curse breakers find that that Horcruxes themselves are generally not a problem. It's the traps a Horcrux maker puts on them—right nasty those are."

"We're not looking for Horcruxes, Bill—we're looking for information."

Leaning forward, Bill motioned Remus closer. "In that case, I might be able to help you a little. There are some places you might be able to find something to help."

* * *

So far they had followed up on all of Bill's suggestions, but had come up completely empty. The goblins had been the most helpful by far, but even they had not been able to give Remus the information he had been searching for. They had merely confirmed that yes, the Horcrux had been originally created in Egypt, but that all knowledge of them appeared to have disappeared. Even pulling that out of the goblin to whom they had spoken had been a chore—apparently, Horcruxes were an abomination to the goblins, and possessing, creating, or even owning the knowledge of how to create one was a capital offense by their law.

And the other locations Bill had given them had turned out to be red herrings, or the information simply did not exist at all. They had posed as law enforcement—not untrue in Tonks' case—searching for ways to combat dark magic, and even though they had never mentioned Horcruxes by name—except, of course, to the goblins—they had received many a strange look when they had posed their questions. Thus their current dilemma—there was nothing in the city of Cairo, or its surrounding environs, to suggest that such a spell had ever existed.

"So what now?"

"I guess we follow Dumbledore's suggestion and head up the river," said Remus.

"Are you sure we can find anything there either?" Tonks' voice was laced with skepticism.

"No, I'm not," was Remus' blunt reply. "But it seems like the logical next step." He was silent for a few moments, thinking about the mission and their next moves. "We know that the Horcrux was originally created over three thousand years ago, and we know that it was created in Egypt. As ancient Egypt was mostly concentrated on the Nile river delta and the banks of the upper river, it seems likely that any information would likely be found in one of those two areas. I would think that information such as this might possibly have survived in more rural areas, maybe out in some archaeological dig somewhere off the beaten path."

"There are a lot of 'mights' and 'thinks' in that statement."

Remus shrugged. "You know as well as I that we can't just walk into a bookstore and buy _A Thousand Ways to Destroy your Horcrux_."

Grinning, Tonks slapped him on the shoulder. "No, I don't suppose we'll be able to at that. And I'll thank you not to be glib."

"And I'll thank you not to be snide," Remus rejoined returning her grin.

"You know, it's too bad Caesar destroyed the Great Library," Tonks offered. "I'd bet my wand there would have been a magical section in it."

"Perhaps," Remus agreed. "Unfortunately he did, and there's no guarantee it would have had anything anyway. Let's head up the river and see if we can find anything. If that doesn't work, we can try some of the communities down at the mouth of the delta."

"All right, Wolfie. Sounds like a plan."

They bedded down for the night, but though he was exhausted, Remus found that it took him quite some time to find sleep, for his thoughts simply would not rest. His closest friend's son depended on him to find the answer, and he was determined to do so. He had failed Harry once before, and he would not do so again.

* * *

**Ridiculously Long A/N (feel free to skip if this offends you):  
**

1. Continued thanks to everyone still slogging through this story. I hope you're all enjoying reading it as much as I enjoy writing! Sorry for the delay. My sister is in town and we were at my Mom's last night. I still needed to do some revising, but when I went over it and still found errors the third time, I thought it would be best to wait until today to post.

2. For those who wanted Hermione to get together with Harry, it has finally happened! To be honest, my original outline had her thinking about it for a lot longer, but the story wrote itself to a certain extent, and it seemed to make sense to move it forward given how everything progressed.

3. I can hear the outraged cries already, so allow me to nip this in the bud: Hermione does not precisely want to keep her new relationship secret, she just doesn't want to make a big deal out of it, for the reasons she stated to Harry. Some will undoubtedly guess what's happening, but for the time being, they won't confirm or deny that they are together.

4. You know, I've realized certain truths in writing this story. Readers who don't like certain characters will take any opportunity to criticize those characters no matter how they are written. Case in point: Dumbledore from the last chapter. Two things seemed to get the readers' goats—the fact that Dumbledore wheedled Hermione's feelings from her, and the fact that he wanted to keep her research a secret. First, Dumbledore is genuinely concerned about the students under his authority, and he not only wants to be sure Hermione has thought everything out properly, but that she understands _why_ she wants to help before he allows her to do so. Second, he wants to keep it a secret because he doesn't want _any_ hint of this to get out, not only to the populace in general, but also to Voldemort. You might counter that Harry should know, but not only does Harry have a lot on his plate already, but there's also the fact that Dumbledore truly does not know what effect the Horcrux has on him. Hermione's offer gives him a useful way to have someone else help him, but also to keep the matter a secret. You may not agree with it, but that's the way it is.

5. Yes, some of what Bill told Remus seems to fly in the face of what we know of Horcruxes. This is intentional—don't worry, we'll get there.

6. There were several comments last chapter about my A/N about how far into the story we are. So, I thought I'd share a few facts:

Current Length: 595 (Word) pages, 344490 words  
Average Length per chapter: 15.7 pages, 9065 words  
Projected Length: 1250+ pages, 725,000+ words

In total, I have 78 chapters, a prologue and an epilogue outlined for this story, so the end of chapter 39 is the official midpoint. Yes, it's going to be quite a monster before we're finished! The action will ramp up pretty soon, and though this will never be an action fest to the exclusion of all else, there will certainly be a lot more we've seen up until now. A few teasers:

Chapter 41: Action in the Ministry (Yes, they will still go to retrieve the prophecy in this story, though they obviously won't be going to rescue Sirius. Does Sirius survive? Read and find out...)  
Chapter 43: Remus and Tonks make a discovery  
Chapter 46: Death Eater Trials  
Chapter 48: Kidnapping!  
Chapter 51: The first battle of the Second Wizarding War  
Chapter 56: The truth about Horcruxes

That's just a sample of some of the events which are coming up. Once we get past these, I'll post a few more teasers.


	39. Chapter 38 – Visions and Prophecies

**Previously: **Valentine's Day. Harry spends the day with Fleur and Hermione, and Hermione finally tells him about her feelings. They agree to give their relationship a try. Hermione has a confrontation with Malfoy on the way back from the library, and Harry tells Malfoy to leave her alone. Remus and Tonks discuss their next move after searching for Horcrux references in Egypt with no success.

* * *

**Chapter 38 – Visions and Prophecies**

The rest of February passed by quickly, with little in the way of major events to note the passage of time. For the students of Hogwarts, though, life at school fell into a routine which was comfortable and reassuring. Not much was heard from Voldemort in those days, as since the breakout at Azkaban, the Dark Lord had seemed content to scheme in silence and not draw any further attention to his activities.

Of course Harry and his friends knew that Voldemort's silence was momentary and that his ultimate assault would be all the more terrible for his having planned it for so long. Regardless, the respite was welcome as there was much to do while they had the opportunity.

For Harry personally, his Occlumency lessons took up much of his time, and by the time March had rolled around, he began to feel somewhat more confident that Voldemort would not easily gain access to his mind without his consent. Or at least that was the hope—such connections as existed between them were not common, and while Fleur had claimed more than once that he was gaining proficiency quickly, there simply was no way to predict with any certainty how effective it would be against Voldemort, whether he was aware of the connection or not. At the very least, Harry did not find his sleep interrupted by visions of Voldemort's activities, nor was he inundated with his emotions. In all honesty, Harry thought that spying on Voldemort through the connection would be a very good way of gaining intelligence on what he was up to—a double-edged sword to be certain, as the risk of discovery was great, but still a potentially valuable tool. Not that he brought the idea up to Dumbledore or anyone else; he was already well aware of how they would react to such a suggestion.

The routine of school was welcome to Harry at that time, giving him something to keep his mind occupied instead of moping about the Horcrux or worrying incessantly about what Voldemort's next move would be. And though Harry had never considered himself to be a studious person, he found himself enjoying his studying more than he had ever before. Perhaps it was the fact that he was learning more and had more to study for than he had ever had before. What a difference it made to Harry's level of commitment to not only have study partners who wanted to do well, but guardians who actually wanted him to succeed! Never before had Harry felt so much confidence in his ability to do well in his upcoming OWLs.

The last part of February also saw the second Quidditch match of the season for Gryffindor and it was against Hufflepuff. In truth, Harry felt a little sorry for the hapless Puffs, who had already been crushed by Ravenclaw, which figured to only be the _third best_ team that year. With the death of Cedric, their seeker and leader, the Hufflepuff team was in considerable disarray. The replacement seeker was green, no challenge for Harry (maybe not even a challenge for Malfoy!), their chasers were ineffective, their beaters hardly knew one end of the bat from the other, and their keeper was adept at giving an impression of Swiss cheese! The Gryffindor chasers, the well-oiled machine that they were, ran up a large lead very quickly, when Angelina decided to sub Fleur and Ginny in for herself and Alicia, allowing them to have some fun and some playing time. Even with the replacements in, Gryffindor led by almost 400 points by the time Harry finally put Hufflepuff out of their misery by catching the snitch. It was an understated celebration that evening, as it was not so much a win, as a beat down of epic proportions.

The other major activity taking up Harry's time was the continued meetings of the club, and the work he was doing to improve his own Defense skills. Both continued apace, giving Harry the impression that he was truly accomplishing something. He would not be a dueling champion by the time his fifth year ended, but he was becoming more confident that he could at least hold his own should he come into a situation where he had to fight. Even Voldemort himself would not find him to be as much of a pushover as he had previously. And the club was progressing as well, especially with the Patronus spell Harry had begun to teach them at the beginning of the year. Several of the older members were on the cusp of being able to produce a corporeal patronus—it would only be a matter of time before they succeeded.

Of Harry's relationship with Hermione and Fleur, it continued to deepen and strengthen, and Harry spent some time musing about the direction his life had taken. The two girls were, quite simply, the most important people in his life, and he wondered how he could ever have imagined life without either of them. Hermione's relationship continued to be an ill-kept secret—they did not confirm anything, as they had agreed on that Valentine's evening, but Harry was well aware that suspicion ran rampant in the school. Malfoy, however, was uncharacteristically silent about all of this—he avoided them wherever possible, and when interaction was unavoidable, he said little, and instead allowed his sneers and glares to speak in his stead.

February finally turned to March, and with it, winter began to loosen its grip on the Scottish countryside. The air was still cool and crisp, but hints of spring began to appear, cheering all who were holed up in the castle for the winter. It seemed like the promise of a new beginning, especially to those who had waited for further word on Voldemort's activities, dreading exactly what he was planning during that time he had remained silent. However, it was with this changing of the season that changes also happened in Harry's life. Or more specifically, another visit from Voldemort caused a new bout of worrying over the future, and his plans for them all.

* * *

_Darkness. Stillness. Emptiness._

_ Blackness, so deep, so complete, that Harry does not know where he is. How did he get here? Where is here, anyway?  
No answers. Just the black of the blackest night._

_ A whisper. A murmur of sound. From where? Unknown. There is no direction in the blackness._

_ Voices. A dim ray of light appears in the distance._

_ Intrigued, Harry begins to move in the direction of the light, thankful that a direction has now been provided._

_ Forms, indistinct in the gloom, appear and the area around him materializes. A long, dim room, containing rows upon rows of shelves. Each shelf in turn contains rows of dusty orbs, carefully immobilized so that they cannot fall. For the first time, Harry looks at the orbs, noting that most—the large majority—are dull and grey, like the morning of a cloudy and cold Scottish day. Only a few are different, appearing to have a cloudy substance swirling in them, lit with an eldritch light._

_ Stopping, Harry gazes around, recognizing in an instant the scene he had seen before. The last time he had seen this room had been in a dream when he had seen Mr. Weasley attacked by Nagini. So this is a dream? The forms in front of him catch his attention and though he still cannot see them clearly, one tall form immediately catches his attention. He is facing away from Harry, but if he turns, Harry is certain he will see the reptilian face attached to the completely hairless head. Voldemort._

_ Harry thinks about the situation. Is withdrawal even possible? Can he wake himself? Harry has no experience with such actions, and cannot imagine how he can escape. Perhaps more importantly, this is a golden opportunity to find out what Voldemort is planning. He can then immediately tell Dumbledore what he has seen. Voldemort in the Ministry is not an insignificant thing, and the man standing in the hall of prophecy where the prophecy about Harry resides is even more serious._

_ As had previously been the case, Voldemort is oblivious to Harry's presence, and the thought of gaining more information is certainly appealing. If he is careful, there should be no risk of detection, Harry thinks. Harry edges in closer, attempting to hear the conversation, but ready to flee at the first sign that his presence has been detected._

_ "…certain that this will not work, My Lord," a man is saying. He is facing Harry and Voldemort, who Harry has taken refuge behind and slightly to the side, and he gives no indication at all that he can see Harry there. The man is tall, has dark hair and piercing blue eyes, and holds himself with an aristocratic bearing. His eyes also appear haunted, like those of a soldier who has seen too much battle. If Harry was to guess, he supposed that this man was one of those freed from Azkaban._

_ "My knowledge of this prophecy is incomplete," Voldemort replies. "I must, therefore, obtain it, so that I may plan accordingly._

_ "You are certain the Dark Lord cannot touch the prophecy himself?"_

_ Another figure swims into focus, and Harry immediately grimaces in distaste. The third man is none other than Lucius Malfoy, the father of his school nemesis. If Harry has his way, the man will be put away for life, given his suspected crimes. Better yet, simply feed him to a Dementor and be done with it._

_ "Unfortunately, I am completely certain," the first man says with some regret. "The ancient protections are most specific—only the subject of the prophecy may remove it. Simply being mentioned in the prophecy is not sufficient."_

_ "Then it is well that we waited for your release, my friend, before we attempted to do this," Voldemort replies._

_ "This man certainly will not have any protection." The man gestures to a fourth man who stands to the side. "Not that the loss of the likes of him would be any great tragedy," he adds with a glare of open contempt._

_ Shifting slightly, Harry peers at the fourth man who stands on the opposite side of Voldemort. He stays stock still, paying no attention to the conversation occurring around him. His face is slack, and his eyes are glazed and unfocused. He is under the Imperious, Harry realizes with a start, and his presence here is undoubtedly to attempt to gain the orb for Voldemort._

_ "What will happen to him?" Voldemort asks._

_ "The enchantments on the orb will drive him to insanity, My Lord," the man replies. _

_ "The Imperious will not protect him?" Malfoy asks. "He will not be doing it of his own free will."_

_ "There is no mercy or extenuating circumstances for one who stretches forth his hand to obtain a prophecy which does not concern him."_

_ "His fate does not concern me," Voldemort said, cutting off their conversation. "What is more important is the effect he will have on the enchantments. Will this break them?"_

_ "There is no record of such a thing ever happening—" the man replies carefully._

_ But Voldemort cuts him off before he can respond further. "Your professional opinion."_

_ The man shrugs. "I suspect not, My Lord. I doubt the ancient creators of this magic would have left such a simple method of getting around their protections."_

_ Harry is disgusted. They are speaking about driving a man insane as though it is an insignificant consideration._

_ "That may very well be," Voldemort responds, "but we cannot pass up the chance. If I cannot gain control of the prophecy now, then we must devote time and energy to breaking the enchantments, resources that would be better used elsewhere. Have him take the orb, Lucius."_

_ Grasping his wand, Lucius points it at the Imperioused man and commands him to take the orb. Almost as an automaton, the man jerkily approaches the shelf and stretches forth his hand._

_ A jolt of energy shoots out and impacts against the man's hand, and he jerks his hand away from the orb. For a moment, his eyes clear slightly, and he backs away from the shelf, cradling his hand and shaking his head._

_ But Lucius Malfoy points his wand and intones, "_Imperio!_" before the man can truly break free._

_ "A first warning?" Voldemort asks._

_ "Yes, My Lord," the man answers. "Placed on each orb to remind one of the consequences of trying to remove an orb which does not belong to you."_

_ "It is of no moment. Proceed, Lucius."_

_ "Take the orb!" Lucius once again commands._

_ The man hesitates for a moment, clearly fighting the compulsion to obey, but in the end the command is too strong. Against his will, he once again reaches out and this time, grasps the orb._

_ His reaction is instantaneous. He throws back his head, eyes wide and unseeing, every muscle taut. He then begins convulsing and a bloodcurdling scream issues from his throat, undulating and high pitched. The man thrashes and screams, and yet in his flailing paroxysms his hand is held fast to the orb._

_ A flash of green light erupts and the man is thrown away from the shelf, to land against the wall, his eyes still open, reflecting the horror of his last moments, his mouth frozen in a rictus of terror._

_ "A pity the orb was not removed from the shelf," Voldemort comments emotionlessly as he slides his wand back into his robe. "Are the enchantments still present?"Harry has never wished more than at that moment to introduce Voldemort's head to Fred's beater's bat._

_ The first man steps forward and begins waving his wand while muttering under his breath. After a moment he stops and turned to Voldemort. "The enchantments are unaffected."_

_ "Then I suppose we shall have to do this the hard way. I want you to take personal responsibility for this effort, Rookwood. The information contained in this prophecy is essential. It must be retrieved!"_

_ "I understand, My Lord," Rookwood responds with a bow._

_ "Excuse me, My Lord," Lucius Malfoy interjects. He continues when Voldemort motions for him to speak. "If Potter is the only one who can remove the orb, then should we not arrange for him to do so?"_

_ "That would a solution to our problem," Voldemort admits, "but I hardly think it likely. Dumbledore keeps a strict hand on his weapon. I doubt we could engineer such a situation."_

_ Though Harry bristles at being referred to as a 'weapon', he forces his pique down and concentrates on the conversation. "Could Severus not be used to deliver him to us?"_

_ "Severus's position is not to be compromised," Voldemort responds. "Yes, this prophecy is important, but so is Severus in the belly of the enemy."_

_ Voldemort pauses for a moment. "But perhaps it is worth pursuing, Lucius. I shall think upon it further. In the meantime, my orders stand, Rookwood. Find a way to break the enchantments."_

_ Both men bow and Voldemort turns to leave. As he does so, he glances at Lucius. "Make certain you dispose of the body."_

* * *

"What's wrong Harry?"

Startled, Harry looked up, only to see most of his friends regarding him, curiosity on most faces, though Fleur and Hermione's expressions were more concerned in nature. And well they might be, given the dream from the previous evening. There was relatively little Harry could keep from them at the best of times—his most recent visit to Voldemort's psyche was not one he would even attempt to keep from them. But the rest of their friends were not aware of his propensity to receive visitations in his dreams from a certain dark tosser, nor did they know what specifically had happened the previous night.

Plastering a smile on his face, Harry nodded in Tracey's direction. "Nothing. Just a little tired, that's all."

Tracey rolled her eyes in response to his obfuscation. "I think we know you better than that, Harry. Come on—spill. What's got your goat?"

"It's really nothing," Harry replied, looking at all of his friends. "I'm just worried. Voldemort's being uncommonly quiet now, and I've been wondering what he's up to."

To his friends' credit, there were very few flinches any more to his open use of the dark lord's name. Instead there were nods of agreement and commiseration—the topic had come up many times of late, and though most of those present did not know of his connection to the man, nor of the recurring dreams he had had, there was worry on more than one front that continued silence from their enemy could only be deemed as a bad sign.

In actuality, Harry was worried about the prophecy orb. The previous night's excitement had come near the morning hour, and as he was not about to sleep again that night, he decided that a trip to the Headmaster's office was in order. He had found Dumbledore in his office, though he had not been surprised to find that the elderly wizard was already awake.

* * *

"So Voldemort was in the Hall of Prophecy," Dumbledore mused once Harry completed his tale. "Nagini's presence the night Arthur was attacked suggested that he was interested in obtaining it, as her presence suggested she was scouting the building. But now we have proof."

"Would it be that bad for him to get his hands on it?" Harry asked. "The predictions have already happened for the most part."

Dumbledore gazed at Harry with an appraising eye. "Perhaps it has, Harry, but I can only imagine that he would revise his plans if he knew the extent of the prophecy. The part of him marking you would confirm to him of your status as his greatest enemy, which I will admit the first two lines already suggest. At least it is clear that he considers you his greatest threat—more dangerous than myself, given the number of times you have fought him to a standstill. But even more important is the following line. A cursory study of those lines suggests that it's either him or you—though the actual meaning is certainly a little more complex—and I assume you would not want him to know that."

A shudder was Harry's only response. "Exactly. So yes, I consider it essential that we deny him any knowledge he does not already have. Right now we have the advantage; it would be best if we kept it."

"Then why don't we just send someone in to smash it? We already know what it says—isn't that the best way to handle it?"

"The enchantments prevent that, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "Though that is excellent thinking, and rather a more simple solution than most wizards would conceive. Unfortunately, it will not work. The enchantments that protect the orbs from anyone other than the subject of their predictions retrieving them, also prevents any sort of damage from happening to them. You may consider a prophecy essentially impregnable until removed by the subject of a particular prophecy."

"Then why does Voldemort think he can get at it, then?"

"Because for any magic in existence, there is a counter," Dumbledore replied. "If you recall, I told you this when we discussed the existence of the Horcrux in your scar." Harry nodded to acknowledge the point. "The magic protecting the prophecy spheres is ancient and extremely strong. However, Voldemort is a powerful, knowledgeable and gifted wizard, and he has extremely capable followers. You may not know this, but the other man there—Rookwood—was an Unspeakable before he was incarcerated. As such, he possesses a wealth of knowledge. It may take some time, but I believe they will eventually succeed in breaking the protections."

This reply caused Harry some agitation. If that was so, then sitting and doing nothing was inviting Voldemort to find a way around the protections. His discomposure was obvious in the slightly shrill manner in which his voice proceeded forth from his mouth. "Then I'll have to go and get it," he blurted.

"I believe we have some time yet," Dumbledore contradicted him.

Harry shook his head. "With all due respect, Sir, we don't know that. In order to keep it from him, we will need to go and get it."

Dumbledore sighed and regarded Harry patiently. "Harry, I would ask you to consider this. Any incursion into the department of mysteries would necessarily draw the attention of the Ministry, and the Minister himself. Considering how he is behaving now, do you really want the Minister to know of the existence of a prophecy tying you to Voldemort? What do you think he would do with such knowledge?"

"Maybe he'd finally admit Voldemort's back," Harry muttered with some resentment.

"Possibly," Dumbledore agreed. "But if you don't like your fame now and don't like the way Fudge is acting, consider a Ministry which would put you up as their champion against Voldemort. What kind of mischief could the Minister get up to with such information at hand?"

It was only true, Harry thought. There were many different paths the Minister could take with that information, and almost all would undoubtedly make Harry's life more difficult. With Malfoy whispering in his ear, who knew what he would get up to? And more importantly, if the Minister were to somehow get his hands on the text of the prophecy, it would not be long before Malfoy, and consequently Voldemort, knew it themselves. No, it was obvious that stealth would be required for any retrieval. Harry had the glimmerings of an idea begin to appear, but he was forced to concentrate again on Dumbledore, who was continuing to speak.

"No, the time to act has not arrived," Dumbledore was saying. "It may ultimately come down to you retrieving the prophecy, but for now, I believe we should sit tight and plan our next moves.

"However, before we go any further, I would like to discuss something else with you."

Nodding, Harry gazed back at the Headmaster, wondering what he was about.

"Your description of your dream gives me some concern about your natural curiosity. If you do not curb this inquisitiveness, it might get you into trouble."

"I'm sorry?" Harry asked, wondering what the Headmaster was talking about.

"Harry, how are your Occlumency lessons coming?"

Nonplused by the sudden change in topic, Harry replied. "Fine, I think."

"You are practicing diligently?"

"Yes, sir."

Dumbledore peered at him for a few moments before he nodded. "I believe you are. You may not realize it, but I have been probing you the whole time you have been in my office, and it seems to me that you have made great strides in hiding your mind."

_That_ was a surprise. "You have?"

"Yes, and I must tell you that I have not had a hint of your inner thoughts, which leads me to believe that you are progressing quickly.

"But if that is so, why were you drawn into Voldemort's consciousness enough to see this event?"

Confused, Harry thought over the dream the previous night. He had ended up in the hall of prophecy without any conscious volition or design. And yet it almost seemed as though Dumbledore was suggesting that it was his own doing.

"I don't know, sir."

"Think back to what happened last night as you were sleeping," the Headmaster prompted. "How did you come to be in Voldemort's proximity?"

"I was in a dark place," Harry said, thinking furiously about what had happened. "I heard voices and saw a light and headed towards it. That's when I saw Voldemort."

"Exactly. Harry, I believe that this connection between you will always be a conduit for you each past the other's Occlumency. It seems as though you are almost… called, for want of a better term, to Voldemort when something important is happening. However, unlike your experiences in the past, this time effort was required on your part to enter Voldemort's presence, which suggests that your Occlumency can be used to mute even this connection between you.

"You must guard against this." The Headmaster's voice was very stern, and he was looking at Harry with a very serious expression on his face. "Now I know that you did not do this with conscious intent, but you must resist the temptation to try to see what he is up to. For him to discover this link between you could be disastrous."

Nodding his head, Harry realized that what the Headmaster had described was exactly what had occurred. Before, he had always been drawn to Voldemort in his dreams without any choice, whereas, he had made the decision to approach this time, whether it had been consciously or unconsciously done.

"Sounds like a great spy tool to me," Harry made an attempt at a joke.

Needless to say, it fell flat. "Harry, I cannot tell you how important this is. Your skill with Occlumency is now such that I think it would be difficult for him to overwhelm you from a distance. But he would make life miserable for you if he became aware of the connection—he would attack you without respite or mercy, and even the slip of a moment would result in the prophecy being lost to him. Any intelligence we could gain from your ability to see into his mind would is negated by the very great risk of discovery. I must ask you not to put yourself in this danger again."

When Harry gave his assurances that he would resist the temptation next time, Dumbledore sat back and clasped his hands and peered off into the distance, clearly introspective. "In retrospect, I suppose we should have ensured you were much more proficient in Occlumency before we shared this knowledge with you. Unfortunately, at the time, I did not put enough thought into the true extent of the connection between you and the Dark Lord." His eyes once again focused on Harry. "Regardless, you now have the knowledge and you must take great care not to open yourself up to intrusion. Remember, the Dark Lord might eventually gain access to the orb, but an equally viable solution for him would be to obtain it from someone else who knows its contents.

"Fortunately," he continued, "it's a well-kept secret known only to a few. He undoubtedly knows that I am aware of it, but he has never seen fit to challenge me directly, to say nothing of trying to access my thoughts. He probably believes that you do not know it, though even if you did, he does not have access to you.

"We must keep it that way. The connection between you must remain unknown to him."

"I understand, Sir," Harry replied. One more thing was bothering him, though. "Professor, what are we going to do about Snape?"

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore corrected gently. "I understand that his behavior toward you has not always merited your respect, but I will not have you openly disrespecting a professor."

When Harry nodded to indicate he understood the Headmaster's censure, Dumbledore continued, "And I am not certain to what you refer."

"Voldemort and Malfoy spoke of Professor Snape during my dream, suggesting that he could somehow deliver me to Voldemort. Sounds like he's a Death Eater, Sir."

"I am well aware of the professor's background, Harry, and I know of his current loyalties."

"Then why is he still free?" Harry demanded.

Dumbledore's eyes flashed with displeasure. "I would ask you to modulate your tone, Harry. I understand your history with him is such that you have little reason to trust him. I would, however, ask you to trust my judgment in this matter. His story and how he came to be what he is today is not mine to tell, but I can tell you that I have bound him to the light by the strongest of chains. There is virtually nothing that he would not do to see Voldemort defeated."

Rarely had Harry ever had Dumbledore's displeasure directed at him, but he understood instinctively that further questioning on this matter would only land him in hot water.

"I understand. But you will forgive me if _I_ don't trust him."

"I certainly appreciate why you feel the way you do," Dumbledore responded. "Please keep an open mind, however. Professor Snape also has a part to play, and you may be surprised by his role before the end."

* * *

As Harry mulled the conversation over in his mind, he forced any thoughts of Snape away, and concentrated on the dream, and consequences of his connection with Voldemort. He knew that Dumbledore was right. The trick would be to condition his subconscious mind to avoid approaching Voldemort even when he was asleep. How he would accomplish that, he was not certain.

And though he was not about to disobey the Headmaster and seek his nemesis out, the fact that he was often crossing the distance between them in his sleep begged the question of whether he could actually spy on the Dark Lord when he was awake. The circumstances suggested that he could, but given the lecture he had just heard from Dumbledore, it was not something he was about to try.

Conversation at the table had continued while he was lost in thoughts of his audience with the Headmaster that morning. Harry's attention was caught by Daphne's voice, as she spoke of the situation at her home. "His goons have stopped visiting my father."

"That's a relief," Tracey said with a snort.

"In some ways," Daphne allowed. "But it was almost better to be stringing them along, than for them to know that we have essentially chosen sides. This way, we'll never know when You-Know-Who might order and example to be made of us."

Harry was already aware of the change in the Greengrass family's stance. Daphne's father, acting as the spokesman for the neutrals, had met with Jean-Sebastian and Dumbledore and they had hammered out an agreement for the neutrals to lend their support to the light. Not all the neutrals had agreed—some preferred to try to cling to their neutrality, while some, though neutral in name, actually tended a little dark. Harry had always known that those families would not support him, regardless of how they dealt with the Death Eaters. But both Tracey and Daphne's families were very firm in supporting this new alliance—the Greengrasses, likely because they leaned in this direction, and the Davises because they would not be acceptable to Voldemort anyway, Tracey's mother being a Muggleborn.

Enough of the neutrals had agreed to at least passively side with Harry, that the news had been received with a certain relief. Voldemort already had enough power with the Death Eaters he controlled and the Purebloods who passively or actively supported him—he did not need any more. Of course, their support had not come without a price. Dumbledore and Jean-Sebastian had been busily working out the details with the neutrals, with the goblins upgrading their wards in case the dark lord decided to try to make an example out of some of them. No wards were perfect, but the upgrades would at least allow them more time to escape should they be attacked. Safe houses, such as Grimmauld Place, had also been set up to receive those refugees who were required to flee.

"They didn't leave without making threats, of course," Daphne continued, "but they'll think twice about trying anything now that we have Dumbledore's backing."

"Unfortunately, I think we're getting to the point where that won't be a deterrent," Harry replied unhappily.

Daphne shrugged. "Probably not. But my family is much safer than they used to be. They can just escape if the Death Eaters try to go after them."

"What about your family business?" Hermione asked. "If the Death Eaters drive them into a safe house, won't they just confiscate all of your potions ingredients?"

"Perhaps they would if they could find them," Daphne said a little smugly. "My father has put our warehouse under a Fidelius. They may find a few things in our staging location, but our warehouse is locked down with my father as secret keeper, and he's only given the secret out to a few trusted workers who have submitted to Veritaserum questioning to ensure their loyalty, and have taken oaths to ensure their continuing allegiance. We'll still be in business even if the Death Eaters try to poke their noses in."

It was a very good plan, Harry reflected, and necessary in these troubled times. Part of the problem the last time around, Harry had learned, was that the magical world had by and large trusted too much in their wards and their contingency plans had been spotty at best. As Dumbledore was so fond of pointing out, any magic could be undone given enough time, and with wards, it was especially true. Ward breakers' techniques had apparently become rather sophisticated, such that a set of even moderately powerful wards could be brought down within a matter of moments. The more robust the wards were, the more difficult it became to bring them down, but even so, an accomplished team of ward breakers could bring them down in far less time than one could imagine.

A funny thing about wards, however, was the fact that the longer they were in existence, the more magical power they soaked up, and the more powerful and potentially deadly they became. Some of the older families, who had had wards throughout the centuries, possessed wards which would take an opposing force some time to disable, but among the most robust ward schemes, the most powerful and difficult to breech were those protecting Hogwarts and the Ministry. Those wards were ancient, had layers upon layers added to them over time, and were generally powered and strengthened by the activity which went on inside the buildings. Even they could eventually be overcome given enough time, but the problem was the both locations were so well defended, that the time required would likely not exist. Hogwarts reportedly had several nasty surprises created by the founders which would undoubtedly decimate any attacking force.

That these wards protected Harry and the students of Hogwarts from him likely caused Voldemort no end of vexation. He would have to find some way around them, or some way to disable them before he would be able to achieve his ultimate victory, and the presence of Dumbledore at Hogwarts was undoubtedly a rather strong deterrent to his ultimate plans. But he had not achieved what he had by not being able to solve problems, and Harry did not doubt that Dumbledore would become a major target the further into this war they progressed.

The final piece about wards which Harry had recently learned was the fact that Hermione's house had been warded by Dumbledore. Unfortunately, as there was little ambient magic in the area, the wards would not prove to be a major obstacle, should Voldemort decide to attempt something with her parents. Again, however, they were not required to be an impregnable barrier. Elizabeth and William Granger had been supplied with a pair of Portkeys which would whisk them away to a safe house, and instructed to keep them at hand at all times. But something was bothering Harry—something he had wondered about for some time.

"But what if the Death Eaters lay down Portkey wards?" Harry asked, thinking that this might be a hole in their plans. "Wouldn't that make escape Portkeys useless?"

"Portkey wards are not that simple, Harry," Daphne replied, to which several others nodded. "You don't just raise them with a wave of your wand, like apparition wards. Portkeys are physical objects, and require physical wards to prohibit their usage. Portkey wards require a set of runic stones set at various intervals, and they take some time to set them up."

"That's why Portkeys are so useful as escape tools," Fleur added. "Most buildings of any importance have Portkey wards in place and only specific people are authorized to grant the use of Portkeys within their confines. Hogwarts is an example of such a location."

Daphne nodded and continued the explanation. "At my home, my father can authorize a Portkey to pass through our wards. So no one can Portkey into our home, but we can Portkey out if we're threatened. As long as we keep our Portkeys to hand, we can escape in an instant."

That was all very interesting, but something felt off to Harry. "But if that's the case," he began thoughtfully, "why was the Portkey able to take me to Voldemort last year during the third task?"

"According to Papa, it is because Dumbledore delegated the responsibility to Professor Moody last year," said Fleur. "As you know, it was Barty Crouch using Polyjuice. The intent of the Portkey was to return the winner to the stadium outside the maze, which it actually did when you took it a second time. It's likely that Crouch just layering the graveyard as a first destination on the existing Portkey."

"But why would he do that?" Harry demanded. "If that Portkey had only been one way, there's no way I would have escaped."

"Because there was always the possibility someone would have checked," Fleur responded. "There is no way to tell exactly where a Portkey leads, but the Headmaster would certainly have known that it led outside the grounds had he merely replaced the destination. He did it that way to fool a cursory inspection."

It made sense, and Harry gleaned a very important fact from their conversation—escape was always possible, if the proper contingencies were taken in advance. Unless, of course, one was caught under the influence of previously existing Portkey wards. And with the safe houses Dumbledore had set up under Fidelius charms, his allies would have safe locations to which they could escape and regroup. Incidentally, Harry wondered if Voldemort had set up a similar network of contingencies for himself and his followers.

The thought had Harry suppressing a derisive snort—Voldemort was much too arrogant for such things. _He_ was the _Dark Lord_, after all, and had no need for such measures. _He _was exceptional. No doubt he thought the whole world would simply spare itself a lot of grief if they would all just bow down to the inevitable and fall down at his feet.

The conversation continued on, and though Harry listened with half an ear, he made very little contribution to it. The thought had crossed his mind that he was obsessing about the prophecy orb, and should not worry about it. He also considered the possibility that he was simply being paranoid about its safety. But he could not shake the conviction that time was much shorter than Dumbledore had indicated, and that they would have to take actions sooner rather than later. If so, the only realistic option was for Harry to retrieve it. He just needed to figure out how to do so without alerting the Minister, or more importantly Voldemort himself, as to what he was doing.

* * *

In another part of the country, the same issues were being considered, though in conversation, rather than Harry's solitary reflections. Another Order meeting had been held that evening, and though tempers had begun to flare over the Minister's continued inaction and open obfuscation, there were no solutions as to what could be done about it.

More to the point, it was generally agreed upon that Voldemort's recent silence indicated his continued effort to build up his forces, and carefully plan the offensive he would almost certainly unleash upon the ignorant masses of the magical world. Those in the know, of course, understood that at least part of his recent low profile was due to his continuing efforts to obtain the prophecy sphere. This fact, however, was not known even to most of those in the Order, let alone to the world at large.

"You think Harry will try something?" Sirius asked as Dumbledore finished reciting the events of the morning.

"We all know how impulsive he can be," said Dumbledore with a sigh. "I have cautioned him against rushing in without a plan, but I am certain he is worried about it. Luckily, he seems to have taken to his Occlumency lessons quite well indeed—I probed him for several moments and could not find any weaknesses. Of course, we all know what would happen were he to fall in the Dark Lord's hands."

"Harry has matured substantially," Jean-Sebastian interjected. "I am certain he will act with more consideration than he has in the past."

Nodding his agreement, Sirius turned his attention back to the Headmaster. "Frankly, I am more concerned about this news of Voldemort's interest in the prophecy." Sirius still had a little bit of a shudder run through him when saying the name, but he was determined to shed his conditioning and refer to the scumbag without all of that You-Know-Who nonsense. The last time Harry caught him avoiding the use of dark lord's name, he had reacted with an amusing amount of displeasure, telling Sirius that it was only a made up name for a jumped up pretender who had no business calling himself a lord. Even now, Sirius had to fight a smile at the memory of passionate affront that he would act like most others in the magical world and avoid the use of the dark lord's name. "Are you certain the prophecy is safe?"

"As certain as I can be," Dumbledore responded. "I am not an Unspeakable, nor have I ever been one, but I fancy I have managed to accumulate a certain level of expertise in obscure magics. The protection on the orbs is very old and very powerful. Unless Voldemort was to accidentally stumble on the answer, I suspect it will take him many months to discover a way to circumvent the protections, even more so because he will have to take great care not to be discovered. Unfortunately I cannot give you any further reassurance."

"Should we not have a contingency in place?" Jean-Sebastian asked.

"We should," Dumbledore conceded. "But the only contingencies which will have any effect involve Harry retrieving the prophecy. _That_ is unfortunately not an option at this point in time."

"We should make it an option," Sirius replied, perhaps more bluntly than he had intended. "It seems to me that we cannot take the risk that Voldemort will succeed."

Dumbledore held his hand forward in submission. "Very well. I will attempt to come up with a plan that we can all agree on. However, we must take care—there is very great danger in exposing Harry to Voldemort, and almost as much in making the Minister aware of the existence of the prophecy."

"Will your Unspeakables not inform him?" Jean-Sebastian asked curiously.

"A bloody secretive lot they are," Sirius growled. "They don't let any information escape that they can prevent by any means, even to the Minister."

"Then we are agreed," Dumbledore replied, rising to his feet. "I am sorry, Sirius, Jean-Sebastian, but I must return to Hogwarts. I bid you good night."

Both Sirius and Jean-Sebastian turned to watch the Headmaster and exchanged a significant glance.

"Do you think he is being completely upfront with us?" Jean-Sebastian queried.

Sirius sighed. "I think secrecy is in his blood. He may not have told us everything he knows, but I at least believe that he has not kept anything from us which would harm Harry. He does have Harry's best interests at heart."

"I certainly hope so," said Jean-Sebastian with a certain dark shade to his voice. "If he hasn't, I will take Harry and my family and return to France. I won't fight a war and put my trust in those who can't be trusted."

"I'm with you, my friend. And I'll go with you too."

With that, their conversation came to an end, and Sirius followed Jean-Sebastian from the room. They passed through the parlor to see that a few of the members of the Order we still present, including Hestia who was standing speaking with Molly Weasley. She flashed him a grin as he entered the room, causing Sirius to respond in kind.

Since the occasion in which he had met Hestia, he had encountered her a few other times, and she struck him as a very down-to-earth person, intelligent and a fun conversationalist. It certainly helped that she was not exactly hard on the eyes, either, with her wealth of luxurious dark brown hair and light hazel eyes. As a teenager, Sirius had had a reputation for chasing anything with blond hair and blue eyes, so to be honest Hestia was a bit of a departure for him. Perhaps he had grown somewhat, though the eternal child in him rebelled at such a thought; looks no longer mattered so much, though he certainly could not complain about Hestia from that standpoint. Of course it was not as though they were any more than acquaintances at this point—but the years of solitude in Azkaban had caused him to crave a little companionship, and he was not about to complain if Hestia was interested in talking to him.

"So, secret meetings, is it?" she teased him as he approached. It was a running joke between them, as Dumbledore usually holed up with Jean-Sebastian at the very least, often with Sirius included, after an Order meeting. It was interesting, Sirius thought, amused at the situation. Jean-Sebastian had not even been a member of the Order only six months earlier, and Sirius was only two years removed from a lengthy stay in Azkaban, but now they were arguably Dumbledore's closest advisors within the Order. Dumbledore still led—his force of personality and experience warranted his position—but Sirius was happy to think that he had assumed a position of importance. It all really went back to his determination that he would not fail his godson again. Sirius was eager for the responsibility.

"You know how these things go," Sirius said with aplomb. "It seems Dumbledore can't do without me."

"Now someone's getting a big head," Hestia said mock seriously.

They laughed and agreed to head out and grab some dinner together. It was several hours before Sirius had to be back at Hogwarts, and he was looking forward to spending some time with his newly acquired friend. More and more as he became distanced from his time in Azkaban, he felt like a member of society, able to laugh and just go with the moment. The years in Azkaban and the pain of James's death was there and always would be. Now, however, he could see the path to a future—one which could be brighter than any he could have imagined only a few short months ago.

* * *

It was some days later when Harry walked through the halls of Hogwarts, his two ladies accompanying him, with purpose and determination. He had thought about the situation since the night he had witnessed Voldemort in the Hall of Prophecy, and he knew the time to act had come.

Dumbledore's advice and directions were reasonable and founded in good solid knowledge and understanding, but somehow Harry knew that the time to sit back and wait for events to happen was past. Dumbledore may be completely correct about the length of time it may take for Voldemort to find a way to circumvent the protections on the orb, but they could not take that chance. They had to do something to deny him the prophecy, and take action to change the dynamic of this struggle, which was rapidly becoming more slanted against them with Fudge's refusal to see reason. Harry was hopeful that they would be able to do both.

They stopped in front of the gargoyle entrance to the Head's office and were quickly granted entry. They climbed the stairs and entered through the open door to be greeted by the sight of the Headmaster watching them curiously as they entered his domain.

"Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, Miss Delacour," the Headmaster said as they entered. "What can I do for you this evening?"

"I think I know how to get the orb, and maybe get Fudge to admit Voldemort has returned," was Harry's simple reply.

_Next: Harry's plan and a visit to Remus and Tonks._

* * *

**A/N: **

1. Sorry for the delay. 'Tis the season after all, and I was caught up in doing other things last night when I would usually be going over the chapter and posting. Thanks to everyone who continues to read and comment.

2. I handled the scene in the Hall a lot differently than in canon, and there are a few reasons for that which will become clear later.

3. What always struck me most of all about the confrontation in the Hall, however, was that the orbs were protected from someone taking them, but not from physical damage. What? How does that make any sense at all? I tried to correct that.

4. In many ways, this chapter gave me fits. It's a build up chapter, and I'm impatient for some of the more exciting events which are coming up. Still, there was quite a bit of information in there which will prove to be very important. Some of these little tidbits might not be quite so obvious...


	40. Chapter 39 – Changing the Status Quo

******Previously:** Harry again sees Voldemort in his dreams, trying to gain possession of the prophecy orb. When it fails, he orders Rookwood to find a way to circumvent the protections. Dumbledore cautions Harry, citing his curiosity as the reason why he once again dreamed of Voldemort. Jean-Sebastian and Sirius discuss the dream with Dumbledore. Harry approaches Dumbledore and tells him he has a plan to retrieve the orb.

* * *

**Chapter 39******** – Changing the Status Quo**

The magical district in the city of Aswan was not an impressive sight. The city itself was a bustling tourist center, small, yet vibrant, situated as it was just above the Aswan Dams on the Nile. However, as a small and somewhat remote city, the magical population was undoubtedly equally small, and in that it didn't disappoint. The district was reached through an opening in a busy bazaar, hidden by the illusion of a brick wall, and spelled with the requisite Muggle repelling and notice-me-not charms. The entirety of the magical presence was a few shops and street vendors hidden away, and very few patrons were to be seen shopping, though that also could be due to the heat of the day. Diagon Alley, it was not, though given the remoteness of the location, Remus supposed it was not surprising that there was little magical presence in the area.

Paying no attention to the hawkers who bestirred themselves enough to call out his interest to their wares, Remus strode down the street toward an old, rundown pub situated at the street's end. On the outside it did not look promising; it was a ramshackle building, weathered in the heat of the merciless sun, its adobe walls bleached and crumbling—in fact, even when accounting for differences in building materials and locations, it was strongly reminiscent of the Leaky Cauldron, leading Remus to wonder if pubs the magical world over were all such disreputable places. The interior of the pub was not much better. It was dim and it smelled of beer, the sweat of bodies in the heat of the day, and the smell of tobacco, and the curiously sweet apple scent with which shisha was so often flavored. It was little more than a collection of a few tables, a bar, a number of hookahs and a few bottles of watered-down liquor.

Likewise there were few patrons in the pub—a few old men, swapping tales and anecdotes, or simply trying to cool down from the heat of the day with a pint of beer out of the murderous glare of the sun. Nowhere in the pub did Remus see evidence of any women, and he involuntarily glanced at Tonks who had entered after him. The face of a stranger stared back at him, disguised as she was to appear as a man—it was a fact that men had greater freedom, especially this deep in the country, and when they were not in their rooms, she generally assumed the form of a man. Still, it was strange to know that it was Tonks as she looked back at him from behind a neatly trimmed beard, her head covered with a keffiyeh in the manner of an Arab man. She said exactly the same thing when he applied his glamour to make him appear like an Arab man himself.

Focusing on the task at hand, Remus searched the cloudy room and, spying an old man in the corner who fit the general description he had been given. Perhaps more importantly, a helpful man in the previous town had described him as one who was familiar with old magics and told them exactly where they could find him at this time of day. The man was ancient; his face was weathered and lined like the leather of an old boot, and he sported a colorful red keffiyeh wrapped around his head. He had an ornate hookah with a cone-shaped blue base and a flowered pattern etched up the sides, situated in front of him, from which he drew at periodic intervals, blowing smoke rings into the air. He noticed them approaching and Remus was drawn to his eyes, as they were bright, showing no sign of his age, and spoke of a rare intelligence. For the first time in more than a week, he felt the stirrings of hope that they would be able to find something.

Indicating the unoccupied seats at the table, Remus politely spoke to the man, "I apologize, but may we join you for a moment?"

The old man squinted and peered up at him. "Do I know you?"

"I was told you may be able to help us," Remus responded, thankful for the translation charms. There was no way to suddenly learn a new language—not even magic could simply insert such information into one's head—but the proper charm could make it so that you understood what another person said, as though they had spoken in your own language, and do the same for them in return. This mission would have been impossible without such charms. "My companion and I are looking for some information on old magics, and I understand that you are acknowledged to be conversant such things."

A toothy grin met his declaration. "I do have some modest expertise, yes. It is good that you have come to Qareeb. Please, sit; I will help you if I can."

Thanking him, Remus sat on the rickety chair, noting the groan his weight elicited from the aged wood. To his side Tonks also sat, though she glanced around the none-to-clean pub with some distaste.

"Now," Qareeb said after taking a long draw on his hookah, "what can I do for you?"

"We are looking for some information on an ancient magic which originated in this part of the world."

"Well, well then, don't hesitate. What is this magic?"

"It is related to soul magic," Remus stated carefully. This was perhaps the most difficult part of their task—asking about Horcruxes without coming out and saying it. They had typically stuck to vague inquiries which generally went nowhere—soul magic was obscure, after all, and there were very few who knew anything about it at all. A few times, however, they had been forced to actually come out and state what they were looking for—as of yet, however, they had not had anyone who had even heard of them, let alone knew any helpful information. "We would appreciate it if you could direct us to resources which have information on this subject."

"Hmm…" Qareeb said as he brought the pipe from the hookah to his mouth. "Soul magic, you say. A pretty useless branch of magic."

Remus watched the elderly man and he thought he could detect a little less cheer than he had originally shown—almost as though he was now wary of them but did not wish to show that fact. Was there some taboo on soul magic? They had not run in to any prejudice that they knew of, but their general ignorance of the culture certainly made giving offense a possibility. If this man retreated just from hearing them speak of soul magic, it might be worth it to just come out and ask him what he knew of Horcruxes.

"As I said," Qareeb continued, "soul magic does not exactly have many uses, my friends. I'm not sure why you would be searching for information on it—there is a bit of native magic to the region which is more useful and interesting. Could I tell you something about it?"

Shaking his head, Remus replied, "Unfortunately, there is something specific we need information about." He watched their companion of anything which would indicate that he was being evasive, or that he was not telling them something, but the man merely appeared somewhat curious, albeit in a wary sort of way.

"Well, I cannot help you unless you tell me precisely what it is you are searching for."

Exchanging a glance with Tonks, Remus decided that this was one of the times when coming out and stating what they wanted may just lead them to some information. "It is called a Horcrux."

The change in Qareeb's demeanor was almost instantaneous, as he frowned and his manner transformed from open and engaging to unfriendly and distrusting. "Why would you wish to know about such a horrible device?"

"Then you have heard of it?" Remus asked eagerly.

Qareeb grunted. "I have. But I know enough of such things to know that they are better left undisturbed. Now, you have not told me why you wish to know of this Horcrux."

"Because we suspect a powerful man of having made one," Remus responded, sticking to the vague story they had decided on. Not knowing the sympathies of the area particularly well, they certainly did not want to run around dropping the name Voldemort everywhere they went.

"And you wish to stop him?"

"That's the general idea," Remus replied in a dry tone of voice.

The old man grunted and turned back to his hookah. It was several moments before he deigned to acknowledge them again, but Remus was certain that he was deep in thought during those moments in which he smoked. Finally, his attention did return to them.

"Well, if you are looking for information on Horcruxes, I'm afraid you have come to the wrong part of the world."

Ignoring the fact that Qareeb had already guessed that they were not from Egypt, Remus replied, "But all of our information suggests that they were first created here."

"And in that you are correct, by all accounts. However, there is little remaining to be found in Egypt. Over the centuries, it appears that knowledge of Horcruxes has disappeared—I doubt you could find more than a few scraps of parchment which would even mention the word, let alone the detailed knowledge you seek."

Dismayed, Remus shared a glance with Tonks. It appeared they had come to another dead end.

"Is there nowhere we can go to find the information we need?"

Qareeb appeared thoughtful for several moments. "You certainly won't find anything here in Aswan. You may have better luck down in the delta. Of course, you may stumble upon some secret cache of knowledge too—uncover some long lost library of parchments containing the treasures of knowledge lost to the world." He laughed at such a thought. "There may still be some information which survives, but I doubt you will find it this far up the Nile. You may find what you seek in some other area of the world—I understand Horcruxes have been found elsewhere. You may also discover something by speaking with the Goblins—they are involved with burial grounds and tombs, after all."

Remus peered at the man thoughtfully. "Do you know anything of the ritual?"

"I don't," Qareeb responded, his tone again becoming less friendly. "I stumbled across a reference to a Horcrux many years ago, but it was little more than a few fragmented descriptions. I destroyed them all. Such knowledge should be lost—or better yet, never even discovered. Now I have told you all I can; please leave me."

The man's eyes bored into Remus and he could feel Qareeb willing them to be away. Aware that nothing further could be gained by pressing the issue, Remus thanked him before he stood and walked from the pub.

The daylight had faded while they were in the establishment, and now twilight was beginning to fall. Motioning Tonks to be silent, not wanting to be overheard, Remus led them from the magical area and out into Aswan proper. The city was small and dusty—it sometimes went years without rain there, and its position so far down into the desert meant that even in the middle of March, the temperature generally rose to an uncomfortable level during the day, and though it was cooler overnight, it was still not frigid as he had always thought deserts were supposed to be. In a few more months, it would undoubtedly be uncomfortably hot at night, and absolutely stifling during the day.

They walked in silence down the streets of the city, and within a quarter of an hour had drawn close to the Nile. The flowing water was somewhat lethargic in this part of the river, it being just far enough downriver from the dam for it to have slowed back down to its lazy pace. It was an oasis of tranquility in the middle of the harsh desert.

They stopped in a secluded spot along the river and leaned against a railing which stood by the side to the path. Glancing at his companion, he noted with some annoyance that she had reverted back to her natural form and removed her keffiyeh—she complained continually that it was very draining and difficult to maintain the form of an Arab man for long periods of time. Remus liked her looks but the risk of discovery was much greater when she appeared as a woman.

When he admonished her to return to her disguise, she merely shrugged and pointed to the darkening sky. "It's too dark to see me clearly, Remus. Don't worry."

Remus found that he did not have the hear t to argue with her. "So what do you think?"

"About Qareeb?" Tonks clarified. When Remus nodded she continued, "I couldn't detect any falsehood from him, if that's what you're asking."

Sighing, Remus nodded his head. "I got that impression too. So assuming that we can't get anything further from him, what do we do next? "

"Further up the river?"

Though he was frustrated, Remus kept his calm. "We're almost to the end of Egyptian territory. The only town of significance along Lake Nasser is Abu Simbel. But that's really not the point."

"What do you mean?" Tonks asked with a curious look.

"I mean that we're not considering this in a logical fashion," Remus supplied.

"Magicals are not exactly known for logic," was Tonks's cheeky reply, to which Remus flashed her a brief smile.

"Maybe not, but we had better find some, or we could end up wandering around here for years. Dumbledore gave us directions to search in Egypt, citing it as where the ritual was discovered. Egypt of antiquity was very different from the modern county."

Tonks frowned. "We're taking that into account, aren't we? There's no sense going out into the desert where no one lives. Wasn't ancient Egypt concentrated along the Nile?"

"It was," Remus confirmed. "So is modern Egypt, for that matter. Dumbledore told us it was created three thousand years ago. But if he was even off by a few hundred years, then everything changes. The boundaries of ancient Egypt were somewhat fluid, depending on their conflicts with other powers, the state and strength their own Pharaohs, and even conditions in the world, such as the availability of food and whether there was an outbreak of disease. During its greatest extent, Pharaohs not only ruled all the way down to Khartoum in Sudan, but also west along the Mediterranean, and east, all the way to Turkey. It was a very far flung empire in those days."

"So you are telling me that we're going about this wrong?" Tonks asked, her eyes flinty with displeasure. "And why didn't Dumbledore know all of this?"

"Did you?" Remus rejoined, at which Tonks shook her head. "Dumbledore is a very knowledgeable man, but like most other magicals, he tends to pay attention only to magical society. World history is not taught in our schools, as we tend to label anything Muggle as unimportant."

"Then why do you know it?"

"Because I took the time to find out," Remus replied gently. "I knew we would need this information since we were coming here and we were specifically interested in the ancient world. I've brought a few books and I've continued to read as we have searched.

"And the question is not whether we're going about this wrong—it's how much further we continue to wander up the Nile. Do we go all the way to Khartoum? Even further? And if we do, do we follow the White Nile or the Blue Nile? And the greater problem may be that Sudan and Egypt are not even connected by roads. If we go further, how do we get there?"

"But you said that Egyptian power ended at Khartoum," Tonks protested.

"Their rule ended at Khartoum, but their influence would have extended much further. The other possibility is that the inventor discovered it somewhere else—down in the communities on the delta as we discussed before, for example. And though Israel, parts of Syria, and even Turkey to the east, and Libya almost as far as Benghazi were subjected cultures, who's to say that it wasn't discovered somewhere in those lands during a period of Egyptian dominance? We simply don't know."

"I think I'm getting a headache," Tonks remarked, rubbing her eyes with one hand. They were silent for several moments, Remus lost in thought while Tonks looked out over the river. It was a conundrum to be sure, and if Remus was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was not certain exactly what to do next.

The only thing of which he was certain was the fact that they could not give up; too much was at stake for that. If it took fifty years he knew that he would have to continue to look—he owed James, and would not allow his son to continue living with the soul of that madman if he could help it.

A movement to his side drew his attention and he turned his head to see Tonks regarding him, a serious expression on her face. Remus had to admit that for all her playful attitude, her joking demeanor, or her flippancy—which often kept him from being gloomy—it was when she was serious and focused that he was most drawn to her. There was something about her eyes which reflected her passion and determination that he found immensely appealing.

But then the guilt at feeling such things immediately welled up in him—the situation was not such that he could reasonably entertain such thoughts, not to mention the obstacles which stood in the way of any sort of relationship with her. His lycanthropy, the fact that he was much older, the fact that she was Sirius's younger relation… He did not even know what she felt anyway, not that it mattered.

"Can I take it you have an opinion about what we should do next?" she asked, jolting him from his thoughts.

Sighing, Remus shook his head. "In all honesty, I'm not sure that I do. In fact, I agree with Qareeb—if the knowledge exists, it's very likely that it's hidden in some forgotten cache somewhere, and the chance of our finding it is miniscule at best."

"Then we become treasure hunters?"

That little bit of levity brought a grin to Remus's face, regardless of the severity of the situation. "I doubt that would do us any good."

Pausing again, Remus thought about the situation, before he sighed and fixed his eyes on his companion. "I think we've searched just about as far as we can down the Nile. I believe it's best to return to the delta and begin searching in some of the communities in that region—we my have better luck there."

"You don't sound very optimistic," Tonks observed.

"We've been here almost two months—are you optimistic?"

When Tonks shook her head, he continued. "I think that the larger population centers may have more information if we can find it. The further we have travelled down river the smaller the communities have become, and though the locals claim to be steeped in old magic and old ways, Qareeb is the first we have run into who had even heard of what we are searching for. There's nothing to be found here—we need to look elsewhere."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"Then we move up the coast toward Israel," Remus said with a shrug. "If the most likely locations do not pan out, then we can start looking in some less likely places."

Nodding, Tonks turned away and, lacing her arm through his, began pulling him away from the river. "Let's get a good night sleep, then," she said, her sunny disposition firmly back in place. "In the meantime, I'm starving. Let's get something to eat."

Remus followed her with a smile, but not without peering around surreptitiously, looking for anyone paying an inordinate amount of attention to them. Tonks had arrived as a man, after all, and was still dressed like one, though she wore her natural face. Still, Remus did not have the heart to draw her arm from his—it was too comfortable, he decided, and no one was paying attention to them anyway.

* * *

Sitting between his two friends, Harry tried not to fidget. In truth he was a bundle of nerves and though he was trying not to show it, he was certain that both Hermione and Fleur were well aware of his tension.

The problem, of course, was the fact that he was, as yet, underage. He felt that the plan he had come up with was a good one which had a high potential for success, but unfortunately, it also had a potential to be dangerous. If he was of age he would have insisted on it and not worried what others felt, but as it was, he would have to convince his guardians that not only was it possible, but also necessary, given the situation. Harry had thought about it over and over and he was convinced that eventually he would be called on to retrieve the orb in order to keep it out of Voldemort's hands.

"Why won't you tell us what you're up to?" Hermione whispered, her fierceness evident in her demeanor, not to mention the exasperated glare she had fixed on him.

To his other side, he felt, rather than saw, Fleur nod her agreement, her own scowl of displeasure visible for all to see. As of yet, Fleur and Hermione had not been told of his plan, and neither were taking it well. Harry was aware of the fact that his unwillingness to tell them, coupled with his plan to leave them out of it, would get him in hot water with both women, but it was going to be dangerous enough without worrying about both of them. It was better to risk their displeasure, than risk one of them being hurt on his account. He would deal with the fallout later.

The fireplace flaring caught his attention and he looked up as Jean-Sebastian and Apolline stepped through the flames and into the Headmaster's office.

"Ah, Jean-Sebastian, Apolline, welcome," Dumbledore rumbled from behind his desk. "I believe that we are all here now."

The Delacours stepped forward and greeted Fleur and Harry with hugs, while smiling and greeting Sirius and Hermione as well. They settled down into the chairs provided and looked curiously at the Headmaster.

"So what is this about?" Jean-Sebastian asked.

Dumbledore chuckled and motioned to Harry. "I am afraid you are incorrect in assuming that I am the author of your summons. It was in fact Harry who insisted on it."

His eyes swinging to Harry, Jean-Sebastian's eyebrow rose in question. "You have something you wish to discuss, Harry?"

"And he's been bloody closemouthed with us," Sirius said with a good-natured frown on his face for Harry. Then he spoiled the effect by winking.

"Why don't you tell us what you meant when you walked into my office, Harry?" the Headmaster prompted.

Taking a deep breath, Harry looked up and swept his gaze across those in the room. "I think I know of a way to get the orb and get Fudge to admit Voldemort's back."

"Hmm, yes, that is what you said," said Dumbledore as he leaned back into his chair. "Perhaps you should explain to us what you meant."

Forcing his nervousness down, Harry kept his gaze upon the adults in the room. "It's obvious that I'm the only one who can take the orb. I suggest that's what I do before Voldemort can find a way around the protections."

"We have already discussed this, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "It is not in your best interests to alert the Minister of the prophecy."

"But what if we can do it in a way that he will have no choice but to admit Voldemort has returned?" Harry demanded. "I get the prophecy and then we arrange for Fudge to be there so that he can see Voldemort for himself."

A burst of voices erupted in the office, as Jean-Sebastian, Sirius, and Apolline all began to speak, mostly, from what Harry could determine, opposed to even the thought of Harry putting himself in that much danger. And of course Fleur and Hermione were not silent, as they demanded to know what he was thinking of. Only Dumbledore was silent, as he watched Harry with a speculative eye, clearly wondering where Harry was going with this.

"Let us have some calm, shall we?" Dumbledore spoke loudly, gaining the attention of the entire room. "Perhaps we should hear what Mr. Potter has to say."

"This had better be good, Pronglet," Sirius growled. "Your dad would be very unhappy with me if I allowed you to go and get yourself killed."

Harry just rolled his eyes. "Tell me then, Sirius, how many times have _you_ faced Voldemort? I have at least five times, if you count that little encounter in the Forbidden Forest in my first year."

"That's beside the point—" Sirius protested, but Harry interrupted him.

"No, that's _precisely the point!_ Voldemort takes an unhealthy interest in me because of that bloody prophecy and no one seems to realize that I've been fighting him since I was a baby.

"I know that everyone wants to protect me and I appreciate it," he continued when several of his companions would have interjected. "But according to the prophecy, it's ultimately going to be up to me to defeat him, unless of course you don't believe it. If that's the case, then why are we worried about the stupid prophecy? Let Voldemort have it. And keeping me in a gilded cage is not going to see him defeated."

"You know that's not what we are suggesting," Jean-Sebastian responded in a placatory manner.

"The fact remains that Voldemort is one of the most power wizards I have ever met," Dumbledore stated. "He has decades of experience and is steeped in the dark arts, as his work with Horcruxes indicates."

"You will need much more training if you hope to ever defeat him, Harry," Sirius added.

"Wasn't it you, Sir," Harry replied, looking at Dumbledore, "who told me that it's not always the strongest or the most experienced who wins?"

Dumbledore regarded him somewhat severely over his half-moon glasses. "I believe I did say that, Harry, but when I said it, I had no intention of you going off on your own and putting yourself in danger. Careful and deliberate thought is required, not impulsive action."

"And that's why we're here," Harry replied, giving the adults in the room a serious look. "If I had intended to act impulsively on my own, I wouldn't be talking with you about it.

"And by the way, Sirius," Harry said as an aside, "I'm relatively sure that Voldemort won't sit around and wait for me to train for fifteen years so that I can hope to beat him in a one on one fight. In fact, I'm not sure we even have six months."

Sirius bristled at Harry's words, and though Harry was not trying to be flippant or dismissive of their concerns, he also was not about to sit quietly and let the adults do all the work like Molly Weasley insisted. And he was also not about to let them treat him like he had no business getting involved, when he was always target of Voldemort's schemes. The situation called for action, and he would make certain that they took action, rather than waiting around for Voldemort to do his worst.

In the end it was Fleur who spoke up in his support. "Maybe we should hear what Harry has in mind, before we dismiss it. It's not like he's actually told us what his plan is, other than a general statement to go and get the orb."

Harry flashed a quick smile at his betrothed. "Thank you, Fleur." He turned back and surveyed the group. "Voldemort knows that he needs the orb and that he cannot get at it right now. He has told his followers to break the enchantments, but we know he would prefer not to have to divert his resources toward getting the orb.

"I propose we give him what he wants," Harry continued after a short pause.

Leaning forward and placing his elbows on his desk, Dumbledore looked closely at Harry and said, "How exactly do you mean to accomplish this, Harry?"

"By allowing him to think that I'm going on my own to get it." Harry glanced around the room again, and noticed the expressions, especially on the faces of the adults, were not nearly as severe as they were before. "We make it appear like I'm being my old impulsive self by leaving the school in the middle of the night, making my way to the Hall of Prophecy to retrieve the orb. He will undoubtedly set a trap for me—I wouldn't be surprised if Lucius Malfoy and some of Voldemort's other followers are waiting when I leave the hall."

"I assume you are thinking of setting up a counter trap?" Jean-Sebastian queried.

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "But we'd have to make it pretty convincing, and there would be a certain amount of danger. Unless I miss my guess, Voldemort will not be part of that group—he'll likely monitor the situation from elsewhere, but he'll want to be close by in case he has to intervene. So we need to surround the Death Eaters with enough firepower to give them pause, while also making them think that they have a chance of fighting their way out of the trap. Then, when I manage to escape, Voldemort will almost certainly intervene, especially if he thinks I'm alone."

"And the Minister?" Dumbledore asked. "I believe you mentioned that you thought this would expose Voldemort's presence to him."

"I'm not sure I know exactly how these things happen," Harry started hesitantly, "but wouldn't he be called to the Ministry if there's an emergency? If Fudge gets there and sees Voldemort, he'll have no choice but to admit he's back."

Silence descended on the room. Harry watched, trying to get a feel for each person's thoughts, knowing that at the very least he had given them something to think about. Dumbledore appeared to be pensive and lost in thought, while his two guardians appeared a little less enthused about his idea. Hermione appeared to be slightly apprehensive, while, perhaps surprisingly, the Delacour women were regarding Harry appraisingly, Fleur with a slightly proud expression on her face, while Apolline appeared to be watching him carefully, and perhaps smugly.

It was not a perfect plan—Harry was fully willing to acknowledge that fact. But he felt that it was at least enough of a beginning that with a little refinement, it could be modified to fit their needs. More importantly, it was something which would allow them to take the fight to Voldemort to a certain extent, rather than waiting to counter his moves. _That_ as much as anything else was important in Harry's opinion.

Finally, Dumbledore seemed to gather himself and he swept his eyes over the room. "Thoughts, anyone?"

"It's too dangerous," Sirius said immediately. "We have no idea how Voldemort would respond, how many Death Eaters he would task with confronting Harry. Hell, we don't even know that he won't come himself."

"Voldemort presence is indeed a wildcard," Dumbledore agreed. "And I don't know that putting Harry directly in his sights would be in Harry's best interests."

"I've been fighting him all my life—" Harry began angrily, only to be cut off by Jean-Sebastian.

"We all understand that, Harry. But we have your wellbeing to consider, and your past with Voldemort is not relevant here. It's your continued safety."

"But could we not put precautions in place which keep him as safe as possible?" Apolline spoke up.

Jean-Sebastian turned to her with a certain level of surprise in his voice. "Are you actually considering allowing him to do this?"

"I'm merely suggesting we consider the possibility," Apolline said, gazing at her husband affectionately. "I know you want to keep Harry safe and it does you and Sirius," she glanced at the Marauder, "credit. But I also know that Harry is very capable and he's also right—we cannot simply sit back and try to counter what Voldemort does."

"You are correct in that Madam Delacour," Dumbledore mused. "Part of the problem during the last war was that Voldemort generally dictated the terms and forced us to be on the defensive."

"But what about exposing Harry to Voldemort?" Sirius demanded. "I know he's been practicing, but Voldemort forcing his way into Harry's mind would be disastrous."

"I'm skilled enough that it would take him some time," Harry stated. "He's not going to have that kind of time."

"I believe Harry's right," Fleur broke in. "If we can maneuver this so that Dumbledore is nearby when he confronts Harry, then he won't have the time to force his way past Harry's defenses."

"There is no 'we' about it, Fleur," Harry said firmly. He had been expecting this—the girls would almost assuredly insist on being part of this. "This is dangerous enough for one person. I won't allow you and Hermione to become involved."

Fleur's nostrils flared and Harry could immediately sense the signs of impending eruptions both on her and Hermione's faces. She was neatly counteracted by Jean-Sebastian's next words.

"I think that may be the first sensible thing you've said all evening, Harry." He directed his attention to Fleur and continued, "We haven't even decided that we will allow this, Fleur, so I suggest you keep your emotions under control."

It was evident that Fleur's argument had not been put to rest, but she subsided with a tight nod of her head. Hermione, however, was not to be put off so easily.

"It's foolhardy for Harry to go himself," she stated. "He needs someone to watch his back, and any adult going along with him would almost certainly give the ruse away."

"We can return to that another time," Dumbledore said firmly, not allowing any hint of dissent. He peered at Harry for several moments as though working something out in his mind before he nodded to himself and sat back in his desk. "I believe that Harry is on to something, but I have one further twist to add."

Though Sirius and Jean-Sebastian both began to protest, Dumbledore silenced them with a look and said, "Tappy!"

A house-elf popped into the room and bowed low to the Headmaster. "The Headmaster is calling Tappy?"

"Yes, Tappy. Please have Professor Snape join us as soon as he is able."

"Right away, Professor Dumblydore, Sir," said the elf and he popped away.

Harry, however, was not impressed. "Why would you call Snape here?"

Dumbledore regarded Harry with a faintly disappointed air. "I believe Severus can play an important role in this, Harry."

"Albus, there is no 'this'," Sirius said with some exasperation. "I don't like this plan, and I think we're being a little hasty here."

"I wouldn't have expected you to be so cautious, Sirius," Harry commented.

"While I would expect this kind of reckless behavior from you, Harry," Sirius rejoined.

"If I was reckless, then we wouldn't be speaking of this." Harry's frustration was beginning to boil over at his Godfather.

"I believe we need to keep this civil," Dumbledore interjected, throwing a significant glance at both Harry and Sirius.

"Yes they do," Jean-Sebastian spoke up, "but Sirius has a point. We have not agreed to anything, and I for one believe that this idea is too dangerous."

"Can we not follow it through to conclusion and then make a decision?" Dumbledore asked mildly.

Jean-Sebastian shrugged and gestured for him to proceed. "To be honest, I'm somewhat surprised that you are considering this at all, Headmaster. Given the caution you have exercised in the past to protect Harry, this seems to be going in the opposite direction quite forcefully."

"Perhaps it is," Dumbledore acknowledged. "But I must tell you that I given this matter considerable thought and it all comes down to the fact that Harry must retrieve the prophecy.

"No, please hear me out," Dumbledore interrupted when both Sirius and Jean-Sebastian began to protest. "Right now we have the advantage. Voldemort has just begun his quest in finding a way past the protections. If we act now, then we put him in the position of having to respond on our terms. The longer we wait, the closer he arrives at breaking the enchantments, the less likely it is that he will be inclined to risk attempting to get Harry to remove the orb. We know that he is at least considering the possibility of luring Harry to accomplish his goal—Harry is right that we can use this against him."

Dumbledore swept his gaze across the whole group. "I can tell you this—though there are obstacles in his path, I believe that Voldemort will ultimately break the protections, and I don't think it will take him an excessive amount of time to accomplish it. There will come a point when Harry _must_ retrieve the orb, and the closer Voldemort gets to obtaining it, the more watchful he will be when we will make our move. That swings the advantage back to him. Therefore, logically, we must act in a manner which he will not expect while we have the advantage."

As his words sunk into the consciousness of those assembled, Harry reflected at the irony that the Headmaster was about the last he would have expected to side with him in this matter, especially given the caution he had shown in the past. Conversely, it was Sirius who was raising the most strenuous objection, though Jean-Sebastian also did not appear to be in favor. Harry did not even try to contemplate the thoughts of his girls, as he knew they were most decidedly unhappy with him.

The question was about Snape—why would Dumbledore insist upon his active participation in this matter? Harry did not trust the man—not as far as he could throw Hagrid. And even more, Harry could not imagine Snape taking any action which would be in any way beneficial to Harry. What was this relationship Dumbledore had with Snape, and why did he trust him so much?

The door to the office opened and the unpleasant man glided into the room, his expression darkening once he saw who was also there. His only other reaction was a sneer in Harry's direction—not unexpected, of course—before he proceeded to ignore the rest of the room and address the Headmaster.

"Headmaster? You wished to speak with me?"

"Indeed I did, Severus," was the Headmaster's good-natured response. "We have been discussing an urgent problem, and I believe your assistance may be instrumental."

Snape's eyes flicked to Harry and he appeared ready to retort something, but in somewhat of a departure from his usual behavior he mastered himself and inclined his head toward Dumbledore while taking a seat. "I am not certain what I can do to help in present company, Headmaster. Perhaps you should explain."

Hesitating, Dumbledore glanced over at Harry as though seeking permission. Harry, though, was not paying attention to the Headmaster, fixed as he was on the potions master, while wondering why Snape of all people should be asked for his assistance.

"Harry," Dumbledore prompted. "I believe we need Professor Snape's help. Do I have your permission to explain?"

Glaring Snape, Harry said, "I don't know why you think we can trust him, Professor. He's never been exactly trustworthy since I've been in Hogwarts. If I was to guess, I'd say that he is a Death Eater, and he'll go and tell his master everything we tell him."

Snape glared at him. "And you are a feeble-minded dunderhead who should not be sticking your nose into affairs which are beyond your comprehension."

"I suspect that is exactly the kind of comment which causes Harry's distrust, Severus," Dumbledore admonished, while at the same time Harry snarled, "And you are a misanthropic, shallow twat who cannot distinguish me from a man who has been dead for fifteen years."

Though Harry heard Sirius's snickers from his side, he did not remove his attention from the potions master for even a moment. Snape was livid and if his color was any indication, had Harry any concern whatsoever for the health of the man, he would have been worried that an aneurism was in the offing.

"I do not have to sit here and listen to this… drivel from a subpar student!" Snape finally snapped before he rose and made to depart from the room.

"Would you have your life's greatest desire undone, Severus?"

Dumbledore's voice seemed to reverberate throughout the room and though he did not turn from his position facing the door, it brought Snape up short. For a moment it almost appeared as though Snape would leave anyway, but he appeared to master himself. He turned and faced Dumbledore, expressionless and seemingly emotionless.

"I know you put great faith in this… this… mongrel," Snape spat contemptuously, waving his hand at Harry in an agitated fashion. "But I have never seen any indication that he can successfully oppose the Dark Lord."

"What do you know about Voldemort and me?" Harry demanded. He attempted to rise to his feet to challenge Snape, but Hermione kept hold of his arm, keeping him in his seat. It was likely for the best—he felt like punching the git, and he knew that if it escalated into a physical confrontation that Sirius would not be far behind. Though to be honest, Sirius would likely use his wand, and given the Marauders' reputations, he likely knew many rather unpleasant hexes.

"Nothing other than that the Dark Lord appears to take a rather distressing interest in you," Snape shot back. "It is unfathomable, considering how truly unremarkable and pathetic you are."

"Professor Snape, sit down," Dumbledore commanded quietly. "And cease your attacks. The only reason you have not seen any indication of Harry's qualities is because you have never taken the time to try and see them. You have seen exactly what you expected to see."

"I believe you may have mentioned that my assistance is required?" Snape replied, pointedly ignoring Dumbledore's words. "What can be so important?"

Dumbledore once again turned to Harry with a questioning look on his face. But Harry was not about to be forgiving in this instance—there was no trust to be had for Snape.

"No," Harry said, glaring at the potions master. "I'm sorry, Headmaster, but it's very clear that I can't trust Snape. I want assurance that he won't go running to his master the minute he leaves this room."

"Then my presence is not required," Snape spat, before he turned to leave again.

"Severus, if you leave through that door, you risk the termination of your services," Dumbledore called after him, prompting Snape to stop once again. The look he directed at the Headmaster was as poisonous as any Harry had ever seen on his face, which was saying something, considering disdain the man had shown for him over the years.

"Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be best just to leave this all behind," Snape growled.

"You have that option," Dumbledore agreed. "But you must remember the consequences of such an action, Severus. And remember that the thing you want most in the world would be accomplished without your assistance."

A raised brow met this statement. "I thought you said that my assistance was required, or some calamity would happen."

"On the contrary, Severus, I believe that the desired goal would be accomplished more readily with your help. However, I also believe in Harry and in our cause."

Though he hesitated for several moments, Snape finally sat again, though it was obviously not what he wished. "Then what do you require?"

"I need the assurance that you will not go to Voldemort with anything you learn in this room," Harry said. "I want your oath that you will not assist him, take him any information, or promote his beliefs in any manner. If you don't give it to me, I will not agree to share anything with you."

Snape sneered contemptuously. "You don't need any of that, Potter."

"Then you can leave."

"I believe that what Severus meant was that he has already sworn to all of your demands, Harry," Dumbledore's quiet voice interjected.

Startled, Harry stared at them both. He had never expected this.

"What do you mean?"

Dumbledore gazed at Snape, evidently asking him silently for his permission to proceed, much as he had done with Harry only moments before. Snape, however, shook his head impatiently and addressed Harry.

"Are you aware of the fact that I knew your mother?" Harry glanced at Sirius before nodding, which prompted Snape to continue. "Lily Evans was my friend before Hogwarts—my best friend; my only friend. We continued our friendship throughout our time at Hogwarts, at times in defiance of our respective houses. She was the dearest person in the world to me."

"So this is some sort of vengeance for her death?" Harry asked.

"You could say that," Snape snarled.

"Then why did you behave the way you did in seventh year?" Sirius demanded. "Why did you call her a Mudblood?"

"Because I was young and stupid."

Harry muttered under his breath that only the that he was not young any longer had changed, but outwardly he held his tongue. There was as much tension in the room as he had ever felt, and now was not the time to further antagonize him.

"There is also the matter of the lifedebt," Dumbledore spoke into the silence.

"Lifedebt?" Harry asked.

A sneer once again bloomed again on Snape's face, causing Harry to wonder idly at the effortless manner in which he called them up. It must be a talent, he decided.

"Perhaps you should ask your _godfather_ about that. It happened at his instigation."

The attention of the room turned to Sirius, and he glared stonily at Snape. "You are well aware that you challenged me and I merely gave you what you wanted to hear."

"What is he talking about, Sirius?" Harry asked.

Though he hesitated before continuing, Sirius did not visibly shirk from speaking. "In our sixth year, there was a… confrontation between Snape and Moony."

"A confrontation _you_ provoked, Black," Snape growled.

Sirius turned his stony gaze on the potions master. "I am well aware of the role I played in the affair." Turning his gaze back to Harry, Sirius sighed and continued, "It seems that he had become suspicious due to the fact that Moony disappeared every full moon, and though I won't ascribe any motivations to our respectable potions master," he shot a disdainful glare at Snape, leaving no question in anyone's mind of what _he_ thought Snape's motivation had been, "he appeared determined to find out the truth. I merely provided him the means to do so.

"James found out and intervened."

"He in fact… saved me from the werewolf," Snape interjected, though it appeared like he had to force the words from his mouth in a most painful fashion.

"Your father transformed into Prongs and kept Moony at bay while Snape escaped," Sirius continued.

"Why?" Harry asked, feeling a sense of disappointment in his godfather. He had known for quite some time that the Marauders had shared a distinct antipathy with Snape, but he had never imagined that Sirius would have behaved so vindictively.

"You have to understand, that this incident is one of my greatest regrets." Snape snorted at Sirius's words, but Sirius ignored him, preferring to focus on Harry. "I had never imagined he would get so far—I thought Moony's howls would have kept him from going all the way. My intention was to follow him and scare him—taunt him for not having the courage to go through with it. Your dad gave me a thorough bollicking after the fact, I can tell you."

It was, unfortunately, something Harry could well understand. The animosity between Snape and Sirius was visible and profound, and Harry shared something of the same kind with Malfoy, after all. Though he was not the prankster his father and Sirius had been, he could well imagine the pleasure of seeing Malfoy wet himself in fear. It was not noble, but it was understandable.

"So what does this have to do with now?" Hermione asked.

"James saved Severus's life," Dumbledore answered, "and created a lifedebt between them. That lifedebt was passed down to Harry with James's death. This is one of the reasons why Severus has had a hand in protecting Mr. Potter during his time at Hogwarts."

"Most reluctantly, it would seem," Harry muttered.

"I suspect that this is not all there is to the story," Jean-Sebastian interjected from where he and Apolline had been quietly observing the conversation. "A lifedebt is a powerful force indeed, but there are ways to at least passively resist such limitations. I agree with Harry—unless there is irrefutable proof that Professor Snape is opposed to Voldemort and will not carry information to him, we cannot afford to trust him."

When Jean-Sebastian had finished speaking, silence descended on the room. Snape did not deign to speak, and glared at all and sundry with equal ferocity, while Harry, the girls, the Delacours, and Sirius all returned his stare, waiting for some further form of reassurance that he was to be trusted. It was finally Dumbledore who broke the silence, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

"I _know_ that Professor Snape is trustworthy because I have ensured his compliance," Dumbledore stated with quiet conviction.

Harry waited for him to continue and it seemed like everyone else was content to simply allow the Headmaster to continue in his own time. Snape, however, appeared as though he had swallowed some particularly nasty concoction from Madam Pomphrey's stores, not that he often looked any different, Harry thought with a rueful mental laugh. There was little doubt that whatever Dumbledore had used to ensure his cooperation was not something he wished to be known by others—with what he most certainly considered his most hated foes present in the room, this sentiment was assured to be doubly felt.

It seemed that Dumbledore was almost as reticent as Snape was to begin this conversation, but at length he removed his glasses and buffed them on a cloth before he placed them back on his face and turned his attention back to those assembled.

"Though I am loathe to address this any further, it appears that nothing less will satisfy, and for that I can hardly blame any of you. However, I must insist that what I am about to divulge will never be discussed with anyone else." He affixed a stern gaze upon the occupants of the room upon saying this.

"I agree," Harry said, acting as a spokesperson for the entire group. "If your explanation is acceptable and _Professor Snape_ is trustworthy, then we would have no reason to discuss it further. If it's not, then I will wash my hands of him and have no further interest in discussing it." The others murmured their agreement, to which Dumbledore nodded somewhat abruptly.

"In that case, I shall tell you. Your mother's death, Harry, caused Professor Snape a great deal of pain, and his desire for vengeance was acute and all-consuming. I used this obsession, coupled with the lifedebt he already owed you, and bound him to the light with unbreakable chains. Though I will not inform you exactly of what those oaths consisted, I can tell you that they were in the form of an unbreakable vow. Professor Snape is fully committed to Voldemort's destruction in a way which does not allow him to aid Voldemort in any manner."

"That seems rather unwieldy," Sirius declared. "How is he able to avoid Voldemort's commands then? What if Voldemort were to ask him to do something—like killing Harry or you for that matter? Would he not be exposed?"

"There is a little leeway allowed," Dumbledore explained. "But he must discuss it with me, and I must agree to it. It is required in order to allow him to maintain his cover. For example, I have approved the leaking of certain information in order to prove his loyalty to Voldemort's cause, and to keep suspicion from him."

"And the Dark Lord is more interested in keeping me in place as a spy," Snape interjected, though he did appear like speaking at all took great effort. "I've never been commanded to do anything which would contravene my… oaths."

"But that may change," Sirius said, voicing Harry's thoughts. "I doubt that he will be content to sit back and plan forever."

"Therein lays the dilemma," was Snape's quiet response.

"But how could you have done such a thing?" Apolline said. Outwardly she was calm, but her eyes flashed and her jaw was set in a mask of displeasure. Harry instinctively understood—Veela had a history of bondage to unscrupulous wizards, often being bartered or sold for their beauty and abilities, specifically those of a carnal nature. Seeing another in the situation under which they had suffered for millennia provoked their outrage, even one as morally bankrupt as Severus Snape. A quick glance to his betrothed showed Fleur in a similar state.

Dumbledore, however, was not to be intimidated. "I assure you that I did not do it lightly, Madam Delacour," he responded. "But I was and am forced to focus on the greater issues—it is absolutely _imperative_ that Voldemort be defeated, and I will do almost _anything_ to ensure it happens. I am under no illusions as to what my actions have wrought, and I will gladly pay the price for those actions when the time comes, so long as the greater objective is accomplished.

"With respect to Professor Snape's specific situation, his obligations expire the day that Voldemort is finally and irrevocably defeated. I saw the chance to improve the odds in our favor and I took it. I regret the necessity, but I do not regret my actions."

"And I agreed to it of my own free will," Snape interjected. For once he looked a little less sour than was his wont as he actually defended the Headmaster. Again, through a little insight, Harry understood it was because he respected Dumbledore if nothing else.

This was a man who had spent much of his life alone, his only true friend having spurned him in favor of a man he hated passionately. It could not have been easy to see Lily Potter married to his greatest enemy, though Harry doubted that he had ever truly loved her. If Snape was capable of loving anyone, Harry thought it unlikely he would ever love anyone other than himself.

It was readily evident to Harry that neither Fleur nor Apolline was satisfied by the Headmaster's explanation, but at least they were placated by it. The fact that they could feel indignation for one as completely repulsive as Snape was a measure of their ability love and care for those around them. Personally, Harry could not feel any regret for Dumbledore's actions—in fact, he was using every resource at his disposal to guarantee Voldemort's defeat, and Harry could only admire his foresight and tenacity. Though he was yet young and had never been put in such a situation, Harry could not honestly say that he would have done differently.

"Now, is that sufficient?" Dumbledore asked the room at large. "For if it is not, I will excuse Severus and we may continue the discussion without him, for I will not reveal the exact nature of the vows he swore."

"I believe it is sufficient," Harry replied. And the thought was true by virtue of the fact that he implicitly trusted Dumbledore to oppose Voldemort. However, Harry was honest enough with himself to admit that there was one more powerful incentive to want the man to stay—the thought that sending Snape away might increase the possibility that his plan would be rejected. "I believe you had something further to add to my plan?"

Snape reacted to this, peering at Harry intently, and though he looked like he wished to say something—likely derogatory—he kept his composure, and instead asked, "What plan?"

With Dumbledore taking the lead, Harry's plan was explained in detail. He included the discussion of the prophecy, though Dumbledore did not state exactly what it contained, and finished with the fact that Voldemort was now attempting to claim it, and what Harry had proposed in order to deny him. When he had finished, Snape was silent for several moments as he apparently considered what he had been told.

"It has possibilities," he admitted grudgingly.

"Trust you to agree with something that would put Harry in danger," was Sirius's disdainful reply.

"Perhaps you simply refuse to admit that he may be right," Snape rejoined. "The closer the Dark Lord approaches to obtaining this prophecy, the more he will guard against any incursions to retrieve it. Dumbledore is right—we have the advantage now, and the longer we wait the more decidedly the advantage swings to Voldemort."

Snape turned and looked at Dumbledore. "I assume you mean for me to approach the Dark Lord with some information which will make him think that Harry means to retrieve the orb?"

"Yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "Voldemort instructed you to relay anything about Harry which comes to your attention, is that not correct?" When Snape confirmed this, Dumbledore continued, "Then I propose we feed him some information which suggests that Harry has found out about the prophecy and is obsessed about it. We don't even need to suggest that we know that Voldemort is trying to obtain it."

Shaking his head, Snape peered at the Headmaster with some consternation. "You are aware that this may result in the end of my use as a spy, Headmaster. If the Dark Lord suspects me of misleading him, my life won't be worth two knuts beyond these walls."

"Ah, but that is the beauty of your orders, Severus," Dumbledore responded, a trifle smugly if Harry was to be any judge. "You've been ordered to report on him. If we couch the information properly, it will appear as though Harry misled you on purpose."

"But then my usefulness to him will disappear," Snape objected.

"I doubt that," Dumbledore countered. "You may still gain information by observation or spying. He may even decide to have you act against us at some point in the future, or use you as his insurance should he decide to assault Hogwarts. Either way, even if he suspects that we are on to you as a double agent, he will undoubtedly still prefer that you stay in your role, regardless of whether he questions the information that you take to him in the future. We may also be able to make it appear like we found out about Harry's absence and responded to protect him."

"And this prophecy is important enough to limit my effectiveness in the future?"

Dumbledore thought for some moments before he answered. "I believe that we cannot hold resources for a future opportunity which might never come to pass. We will deal with the fall out as necessary. We have the advantage now that we know the entire prophecy and Voldemort does not. We need to keep that advantage at all costs."

"There is one other advantage we may be able to use against him," Snape mused, clearly thinking out loud. "If the Dark Lord has one weakness, it is an arrogance and conceit in his own cleverness. He is very intelligent and can be extremely subtle, but he also has a tendency toward blindness when he believes he is being subtle. He is too arrogant to suspect a counter-trap."

"That sounds like quite a bit of supposition to me," Sirius stated.

"If you have a better idea, Black, then I suggest you share it." Snape's voice was as unfriendly as ever, but it did not contain that challenging quantity he so often exhibited.

Either Sirius did not notice, or he was simply not prepared to give Snape any leeway at all. "The fact that I do not have an idea for another plan does not mean that I am willing to send my godson into a dangerous situation on your say so."

"I believe that this plan is as workable as any," Dumbledore interjected. "I have considered many possibilities, but none have given me the hope for success that this one does. The longer we wait the greater Voldemort's advantage becomes."

"I can do this," Harry said fervently. "I've trained and I've faced him before. We've got to do this, or we risk him getting the prophecy."

Sirius nodded, but it was to Jean-Sebastian that he looked. The Ambassador held Sirius's gaze for several moments before he sighed and looked at Harry. "I can't say that I do not have misgivings about this, Harry. However, I am willing to go along with it under several conditions."

He turned to look at Dumbledore. "Sirius and I are responsible for Harry's wellbeing—every precaution must be taken to ensure his safety."

"I agree. Let us discuss this further, and make certain we have everything covered."

* * *

It was much later that evening when they finally broke for the night. The meeting had been productive in many ways, and now the plan was set. As they walked from the Headmaster's office, Fleur glanced at Harry who walked by her side, feeling equal parts annoyance for his insistence upon excluding them from the plan, admiration for recognizing something needed to be done, and resourcefulness for what he had been able to devise. He had once told her that Slytherin had been an option for him, and Fleur was beginning to see that side of him. It was unfortunate that the noble Gryffindor was so intent on keeping her safe.

On Harry's other side, Hermione walked, her gait stiff and her eyes focused in front of her. In some ways, Fleur knew that it was even more difficult for Hermione, as she had been with Harry through almost every step of their escapades over the years. The fact that he wanted to leave her behind was particularly galling to the young witch who was the architect of so many of the things they had shared—she had truly kept him grounded, and her mind had saved them when they might otherwise have been in over their heads.

It was not so much the fact that he was excluding them—Fleur was readily able to admit that he only wished to protect them, which endeared him to her all that much more. No, it was more the fact that someone about whom she cared very much would be marching into trouble and she would not be there to protect his back. She was confident that her father, Sirius and Dumbledore would do their best to keep him safe, but at the end of the day, they were not _her_. She wanted to be there, sharing his adventures, helping him along and doing her best to make sure Voldemort was defeated. Who would want anything different? Certainly not Hermione or herself—neither of them were shrinking violets who were to be left at home while the men went out and fought the war.

It was that more than anything else which bothered her, Fleur mused. The decision had been made and she and Hermione had been excluded without their opinion even being solicited, as though they were both nothing more than fairy tale princesses. It was exasperating even though Fleur could see Harry had good intentions.

"Well, let's get it over with," Harry's voice broke into her reverie and he stopped and glared at them. "You both clearly have something to say; why don't we have it out now?"

"Harry," Fleur started cautiously before Hermione could say anything, "Hermione and I both know that you want to protect us, and we are grateful that you care so much. Don't you think you should have asked our opinion before you excluded us?"

"Do you really think your father would let you go?" was Harry's pointed response. "For that matter, what about _your_ parents, Hermione? Would they let _you_ go?"

Hermione huffed and stamped her foot in annoyance. "I didn't exactly ask them when we went after the stone or when we went to save Buckbeak and Sirius."

"It's different this time, and you know it," Harry responded. He was still belligerent, but managing his ire quite well, Fleur thought.

"I have just as much right to go as you do!"

"I think we all need to calm down," Fleur said, throwing a significant glance at Hermione. She then turned to Harry. "Again, I will repeat that we appreciate the sentiment, Harry. What we don't appreciate is that you didn't even ask for our opinions."

"I already knew what your opinions would be," Harry responded.

Fleur sighed; he was determined to be bellicose and this discussion was getting them nowhere. He was absolutely correct about what their reactions would have been—both Fleur and Hermione would undoubtedly have insisted on going with him. That much was not in question.

"Harry," Fleur began carefully, "I think what we are both trying to say is that we don't appreciate you making decisions for us. We said we would stick together and protect each other. We can't do that if you're constantly trying to protect us and leave us behind."

His firm façade cracking, Harry passed a weary hand over his face. "I'm sure you will have plenty of opportunities to help me and protect me in the future. I have no doubt we will all be fighting in this stupid war before it ends. But this plan is mine, and I couldn't bear it if either of you were hurt."

To her side, Fleur felt that Hermione was softening, but she appeared that she still had something to say. Shooting her a warning look, Fleur turned her attention back on Harry and approached him, leaning in to place her head on his shoulder, while holding him to her. His arm snaked around her and he held her close as the tension began to drain away. She heard Hermione release a sigh of frustration before she stepped forward and put her arm around his neck, molding herself into his side.

"Maybe I should have consulted you," Harry admitted after a moment in this attitude. "But I could not take the chance. You saw how Jean-Sebastian and Sirius were in there—it was enough of a fight getting them to agree to just me going."

"I appreciate that," Hermione said, shifting a little to face him. "But I want you to know that I will not sit at home like some helpless damsel while you go out and save the world. If that's what you expect me to do, then we have a serious problem."

"You? A damsel?" Harry snorted in disbelief. "This coming from the girl who jumped down a hole into a nest of devil's snare, braved the halls of Hogwarts when she knew a basilisk was loose, and faced down a horde of Dementors in order to help me? Perish the thought!"

"And don't you forget it buster," Hermione responded, jabbing him in the side.

"And I'm the same," Fleur interrupted.

"I know you are both gifted witches. I will remember to ask your advice in the future. But I will not promise to stop trying to protect you."

"A protector is good," Fleur replied, pulling her head off his shoulder and reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. "Just don't smother us."

The three made their way back toward the common room. And though the course had been set, Fleur was not about to let him off that easily, regardless of the pretty words he had just recited to them. Now it was time to take steps to ensure Harry made it out of this mission alive.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. As always, a big thanks to everyone who has reviewed, read, or even given this story a passing glance. As of the end of this chapter, the we are now officially halfway through!

2. Every week I think that I will post early if I can get a chapter done on time, and every week I end up not getting there. I had the first part of this chapter drafted, rewritten, and proofed before I posted the last chapter, and wondered if I'd be able to post it in only a week. Of course it did not work out that way. Because:

3. I've always thought that justifying Harry's involvement in this plan, when he is admittedly just a minor, would be the most difficult and critical part of the story. There will undoubtedly be some who disagree with me, but I think I managed to do it. This chapter is the lynchpin of the entire story—the plan they came up with is really the catalyst for what happens the rest of the way. It's a series of events which are predicated on previous events. It all starts with Harry's plan.

4. The Ministry is coming up very soon—there's some buildup in the next chapter, and then in the next we see the action. In some ways it will be familiar. In others, it will be quite different, and I have one or two surprises that I think no one will see coming. Stay tuned...

5. Finally, you now know the truth about Snape. It's similar to what JKR put in the series, but I decided that his loyalty had to be made a little more airtight, due to the simple fact that Snape is such a bastard. He's doing what he's doing for revenge, pure and simple. But given the type of person he is, I find it a little unbelievable that Dumbledore would simply believe him and take him into his confidence without a more robust assurance that he could be trusted. His oaths are a reflection of that.


	41. Chapter 40 – Setting the Stage

**Previously: **Remus and Tonks come to a dead end and agree to travel back down the Nile to see if they can find anything. Harry convinces his guardians to allow him to try to lure Voldemort to the Ministry to get the prophecy. During the course of the meeting, Snape's history comes out, and he is proven to be loyal to Dumbledore, though only so that he can get revenge on Voldemort for killing Lily. Fleur and Hermione are not happy about being excluded from the plan.

* * *

**Chapter 40 – Setting the Stage**

Ron Weasley found himself in a bit of a dilemma.

Oh, he was not in trouble—in fact, this year had been remarkably free of danger, compared to his first four years in school. He had done his schoolwork to the best of his ability, something for which he had Harry to thank—Harry had been a great motivator with his new studious nature, which was ironically, much more than Hermione had ever managed to encourage him to do. Of course, Ron was somewhat embarrassed at this fact, knowing that at times, he had taken Hermione for granted. Both he and Harry had, to be honest. And though he knew he would never be the most studious or the smartest, Ron was happy with the uptick his grades had seen that year; and just in time for OWLs too!

But it was not his grades which troubled him—the simple fact of the matter was the fabled "Golden Trio" was a thing of the past, and Ron missed it immensely. In the past it had always been Ron, Hermione and Harry against the world. Now, Ron knew that Fleur had to a large part taken his place. If the indications he had seen over the past three weeks were anything to go by, Hermione had taken his advice—not that he had been the only one to give it, he was certain—and was taking the chance to get closer to Harry. That, of course, would solidify _them_ as a trio, with Harry as the linchpin around which the two girls would orbit. He might have thought that he would feel jealousy over this development, but curiously Ron did not. He had done a lot of thinking since Hermione had refused him, and he had come to the conclusion that she was right. She had been his infatuation—they would never have worked out as a couple. Not that Hermione would not be a great girl for some lucky guy—on the contrary to the right guy Hermione would be absolutely brilliant as a girlfriend. He knew that Harry was that guy—he was good for her in a number of ways. He wished his friends the best.

But that did not make his exclusion any easier to bear, though to be truthful, Ron was aware that they had not excluded him consciously. Harry was still his best mate, and they still hung around together, talked and joked around often, and generally acted as best friends normally did. And perhaps that was the problem—in the past they had been much _closer_ than normal best mates, the three of them sharing almost everything and spending almost every waking hour in one another's company. Their relationship was now more what best mates normally shared. By contrast, Harry's every waking moment seemed to be spent in the company of his two lady friends. He had naturally gravitated to his betrothed, and the girl who Ron strongly suspected would become his second wife.

Ron had to suppress a shudder—better Harry than him! And it was even worse for Harry, as there were other girls who were interested in him in far more than a friendly way. Of course, Harry could always have had his pick of girlfriends, not only due to his position as heir if the Potter legacy, and his general good looks and easy-going demeanor, but also due to the whole Boy-Who-Lived angle. The problem was, that most of the other girls saw the Boy-Who-Lived first, and Harry a distant second, though there were some who had come to know him on a more personal basis.

He would have been blind not to see the looks Harry received, and the interest, while understated to a certain extent, he generated. Of those of their extended circle of friends, Ginny was the most notable—and the most obvious!—who was interested in him, though others—Daphne and Susan—had also seemed to be sniffing around him. Even some others—Lavender Brown, the Patil twins, and Romilda Vane, for example—had made no secret of the fact that they considered the Boy-Who-Lived fanciable. Not that any who looked and saw the Boy-Who-Lived would ever land him.

Of the girls closest to him, not named Fleur or Hermione, he supposed that Ginny had made great strides, becoming more of a friend. Susan, who was at times a little tough to read, was very low key and upbeat in her interactions with him, and Daphne appeared to consider him more of a business partner. Any of the other girls, Ron suspected would not even stand a chance, though he doubted Harry would ever obtain the level of feeling for any other girl that he obviously felt for Fleur and Hermione. Ginny was still too in awe of him, Susan was nice, but kind of boring (at least to Ron), and while Daphne might agree to a marriage for the reason of cementing an alliance, Harry would almost certainly never agree to such a thing again. No, Ron suspected that it would end up being the three of them.

Steering his random thoughts back to the dilemma he faced, Ron put the thought of Harry's girls and potential girls from his mind. What was bothering him was the way Harry was acting—the way all three of them were acting, to be honest. It was nothing which would give anyone who did not know Harry any pause to be honest, but to Ron who knew Harry as well as anyone, the signs were there. There was something going on; Ron was certain of it. And in the past he knew he would have been in the thick of it. Now, he was looking in from the outside, wondering what was going on. This must be how Neville must have felt, over the years when the three of them were often out saving the world, while Neville sat on the sidelines looking on. Or tried to intervene, in the case of their first year.

The question was, what should he do about it? What _could_ he do about it? Knowing Harry, whatever he was up to had to do with saving something—or saving the world—and any interference on Ron's part could put whatever he was trying to accomplish in jeopardy. And given what had occurred during their first four years of school, that was certainly not a desired option.

On that Wednesday night, he found that he was not the only one who had noticed Harry's behavior. The club meeting ended early that evening, and the trio left the room as soon as the club was dismissed, another unusual event, considering the fact that Harry usually stayed late to answer questions and offer additional instruction. That night, however, he appeared tired, yet determined.

Ron was about to pack it in himself when he was approached by several club members, Neville—Luna as ever close by—Daphne, and Susan among them, though Ginny, Tracey, as well as the twins, were following them. On a certain level, Ron was still not certain what to make of the Slytherins—Daphne and Tracey were nice, and all, though with Tracey, Ron often got the impression that she was laughing at the world, given her overly sarcastic sense of humor and rather jaded views. But they were still _Slytherins_ and Ron had grown up not trusting the entire house, believing that the whole lot of them were dark wizards. Regardless of how he had spoken out for them the first time they had attended the club, he still found himself wary of them.

"Hey Ron," Neville greeted him as he approached.

"Neville," Ron replied, wondering what this was all about.

"You've been friends with Harry since first year," Neville began a little hesitantly. "Have you noticed anything… off about him lately?"

"What, you mean the whispered conversations with Fleur and Hermione which they break off whenever any of us get close?" Ron replied a little testily. "Or maybe it's the way Harry is distant and moody when he hasn't been that way all year. Or the way he seems almost sneaky, like he's hiding something from us."

"What do you know about it, Weasley?" Tracey demanded.

"Nothing more than you," Ron grunted in reply.

"But you do think that something is going on," Daphne spoke up.

"Listen everyone," Ron said, his eyes taking in the entire group, "I've known Harry and Hermione for a long time now, and I've been a part of most of the things that they've been up to. I can tell you for a fact that something is up, though they haven't told me anything about it."

The others all exchanged glances. "Well, what should we do about it then?" Neville asked.

"Nothing," Luna replied at the same time Ron said, "Not much we _can_ do."

Several frowns met their joint statements, but Luna immediately spoke up in her usual airy way. "If Harry wanted us to know what is happening, he would have told us, unless, of course the Nargles ran off with his tongue. It would be tough for him to tell us without a tongue. But since I'm pretty sure that hasn't happened, he will tell us if he thinks we need to know. Until that moment comes, we will just have to be patient—we could mess up what he's doing and cause problems."

She then turned to Neville and taking hold of his arm, began directing him from the room. "Come, Neville. We have a little time before curfew and you are such a good kisser."

Though his back was turned to them, those remaining had no trouble imagining Neville's blooming cheeks, the thought of which elicited no small number of snickers from the group. Ron grinned at the retreating pair—Luna had always been kind of a little sister, undoubtedly due to the fact that Ginny and Luna had played together as girls. She and Neville made a somewhat odd, but obviously very happy, pair.

"Unfortunately, I think she's right," Ron spoke into the ensuing silence. "We can keep an eye on Harry, but until he decides to tell us, there's not much we can do. Be ready for anything—with some of the things we've been up to in the past, you never know what's coming."

Ron could see that answer had satisfied no one, but other than a few grumbles, no one said anything further and the group began to break up. All, that is, except for one Daphne Greengrass. The tall brunette watched Ron for several moments before she approached him with a determined expression on her face.

"Are you certain you are telling us everything?"

A frown came over Ron's face. "Everything I know," he said tersely. "I'm his best mate, but you know who he turns to for advice."

"Understood," Daphne replied with a sympathetic smile. She hesitated for a moment before she said, "The changes this year with his betrothal to Fleur must be hard for you."

Trying to show his nonchalance, Ron shrugged and said, "He's still my best mate, and I'm his too. And he's never really gone to me that much for advice anyway—Hermione's kind of always filled that role. And a bloody good thing it is too."

Smiling, Daphne turned to leave. "Let us know if you hear anything then."

"Daphne," Ron spoke up, prompting to turn back toward him with a questioning glance. He was not certain why he stopped her, but given what he had witnessed for the past few months, he thought she would benefit from a little advice. "If you're trying to attract Harry's attention, you're going about it the wrong way."

A raised eyebrow met his words. "Who says I'm trying to attract his attention?"

Rolling his eye, Ron said, "I'm not _completely_ blind, Daphne."

"Oh?" the brunette asked. "Word has it that you wouldn't know a relationship if it bit you on the nose."

"The emotional range of a teaspoon, according to Hermione," Ron replied with a grin. "Hanging around with Harry and everyone else has brought my range all the way up to a tablespoon, I would think."

"You mentioned something about going about it the wrong way?" Daphne prompted.

"Well," Ron started slowly, "you almost seem to be approaching Harry like some sort of project or a business partner. But I can tell you that Harry doesn't work that way. If he isn't convinced that you love him, and he doesn't love you, he will never even consider you that way. Purebloods are raised to understand that our parents might set up a contract for us, but Harry wasn't raised that way."

"He is in a contract himself, isn't he?" Daphne jibed.

Ron cut her off impatiently. "And what does he feel for her now?"

"But he didn't feel that way at the start."

"No he didn't. But I'm telling you that he does now. He was forced into this one, and now that he knows that marriage contracts are possible, I will guarantee that he will never enter into another one, which leaves that option out. If you want to get close to him and are really considering him as a prospective husband, then you will have to do it the old fashioned way. Otherwise, I think you will have a hard time convincing him."

Musing to himself for a few moments, Ron said, "That's really Ginny's problem, to be honest. She's always seen the Boy-Who-Lived, and a larger than life Harry, and he doesn't like that stuff. She's come a long way, but I still don't really think she'll ever really grow out of it. I can't really ever see Harry getting together with her."

"I assure you that I see more than just the Boy-Who-Lived," Daphne said, her tone a trifle testy.

"And I believe you," said Ron affably. "I'm just saying that trying to get together for the wrong reasons will get you nowhere. Personally, I can't really see him with anyone but Fleur and Hermione. But if you really want to try to become closer to Harry, I suggest you try making an emotional connection with him."

Daphne watched him for several moments before a wry smile broke out over her face, rendering her uncommonly pretty, he mused absently. "I think you might have actually graduated to a small ladle there, Weasley. That was pretty insightful."

"I do try," Ron replied with mock haughtiness, while buffing his fingernails on his shirt. "But do try to keep it under wraps—I have a reputation to protect, you know."

Making a face at him, Daphne said, "Don't let it go to your head. To be honest, I'd already come to the same conclusion myself, though I thought there was some possibility of convincing him otherwise. I'm not sure I want a husband simply to create an alliance either but I'd do it if I thought it would help my family."

"Harry doesn't need any of that," Ron stated firmly. "If he likes you and considers you his friend, he'll go to the ends of the earth for you. He doesn't need fancy contracts and treaties to give his loyalty to you."

"I can certainly tell that you've been his friend for years. You got his responses down to a tee."

Now Ron was confused. "Come again?"

Daphne smiled at him saucily and sashayed away. "Sorry, Ron," her voice floated back to him, "I need to keep _some_ secrets."

Shaking his head, Ron looked around the room and, seeing that he was the last one there, made his way from out the door and back toward the Gryffindor common room, trying not to think of how he would have been in the company of his two friends only the previous year. He was not going to let it get him down, though it did still weigh on him. He had always known that at some point there would be a divergence in their lives—they would get married and have kids and though they would always be best mates, they would also have responsibilities and lives with their own families. It had just come sooner than he would have expected. Minus the children, of course. Or at least he hoped Harry was not going to have children any time soon.

With a shudder, Ron put the matter firmly from his mind and began preparing himself for bed.

* * *

Being a double agent certainly had its perks. The ability to claim to be on the winning side no matter who won, for example, was an invaluable benefit to one who ultimately looked after his own interests first. Unfortunately, this line of work was also hazardous for one's continued health, and was becoming deadlier all the time.

To be honest, Severus Snape was well aware of the fact that it was not so cut and dried in his own situation. If the Dark Lord should actually come out on top, his own life could be measured in the amount of time it would take for him to raise his wand against his lord. That much was an inescapable fact, considering his situation and vows. Of course, the Dark Lord himself was not aware of that fact—or at least Snape hoped he was not. No, if Potter did ultimately fail, as Snape expected him to, then Snape would have no option but to tackle the Dark Lord by himself and attempt his revenge on his own. By that point, death would be the only option anyway, and he would much rather take the bastard down with him as his last act of vengeance. Not that he would stand much of a chance against the tosser.

Making his way down through the hallways of Hogwarts, Snape considered his situation moodily, wondering how it had gotten to this point. He was on his way to see the Dark Lord, passing on false information in order to mislead him into a trap. In other words, he was helping one bane of his existence try to defeat the other bane of his existence. The fact that he was doing anything at all to actually _help_ that misbegotten whelp was almost more than Snape could endure.

But there was nothing to be done. One was merely the son of his most hated enemy growing up—a person he would gladly feed to the Grindylows, given the chance—but still just the son. The other was the man who had taken the life of the one person in the world Snape had ever truly cared about. It was vengeance on Snape's mind, pure and simple, and in order to ensure it happened, he would need to play nice with Potter.

_Perhaps I can ensure Potter has a fatal accident should he defeat the Dark Lord like a good little weapon should,_ he thought somewhat vindictively.

It was, of course, a fond dream that the Potter line should suffer an ignominious disappearance from the world. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on one's opinion—Snape was many things, but what he was not, was a murderer. His role in the Dark Lord's schemes had always been one from the shadows, and as a result, though he had taken the Dark Mark willingly as required, he had never committed some of the more heinous crimes his fellows had. Not that he would not have, had he had the opportunity or been ordered to do so. He was honest enough with himself to admit that.

So what would he do if he was asked to actually perform some task? For example, if the Dark Lord should instruct him to do away with Potter's little Muggleborn friend in a most painful manner? Again, he was honest enough to admit that doing away with the girl and inflicting as much pain as possible on Potter was a very appealing thought. And the girl herself was irritating enough, with her know-it-all ways, and devotion to the boy, that that in and of itself would make the deed almost enjoyable.

However, his vows prohibited such a thing, regardless of whether the Dark Lord commanded it. When he had sworn his vengeance and thrown his lot in with Dumbledore, his objection had been that he would be left without protection and exposed should the Dark Lord command him to do anything restricted by his unbreakable vow, but Dumbledore had been adamant, persisting in his opinion that the Dark Lord would never compromise such a valuable resource except under the most extreme of circumstances. In that, Snape had to admit that Dumbledore had been entirely accurate.

It was somewhat of a wonder he had ever sworn the oath in the first place. After the Dark Lord's disappearance, Snape had assumed, along with the rest of the world, that he was gone for good. He had even been on the point of suicide; a world without Lily Evans (he refused to dignify her husband with the use of her married name) had—and still did—seem like a very cold and lifeless place. It had taken Dumbledore some time and some convincing evidence to induce Snape to believe that the Dark Lord would be back after he had seemingly died confronting Potter. But convinced he had been, and he had known that the Dark Lord was returning for many years—it was only since that return that he had actively begun to use his position to bring about his erstwhile master's eventual and final downfall.

Just before he reached the entrance hall, Snape stopped for a moment, and glancing around to make certain that there was no one watching him. Seeing no one, he quickly disillusioned himself and proceeded into the hall, exiting through the massive doors and out into the courtyard below. From thence he continued walking out through the courtyard and beyond, out into the Scottish countryside. He had attained the edge of the wards, when he turned on his heel and disapparated away.

Once he appeared at his destination, Snape turned and peered at the surrounding landscape. The Dark Lord had certainly chosen a desolate place to make his headquarters. The manor house in which he made his base was dilapidated, the surroundings empty and even a little eerie, and there was no one other than the Dark Lord's minions for miles in any direction. Being, as it was, in a Muggle district, it was not likely that the Ministry would ever find it, even should they ever admit his return and bestir themselves enough to actually search for it.

Taking a deep breath in preparation for the trial ahead, Snape approached the building and entered. The security, as always, was lax, with nothing more than a single Death Eater watching the front door. Again, the Dark Lord was arrogant enough to believe that his enemies could never do him harm, or confident that his hideaway would never be found. Either way, Snape knew this was a massive oversight, and one which could be taken advantage of one day. The Death Eater was a nondescript thug—a low-level scum that Snape had never before met, nor did he particularly wish to know the man in any way. Apparently, however, Snape was known by sight, as the Death Eater merely nodded abruptly and turned his bored gaze back out into the countryside.

Ignoring the few minions who were in evidence, Snape quickly moved through the halls of the manor to the room in which a throne had been set up for his use.

He had almost made his way there when a figure dressed in black emerged from a side passageway and peered at him with distrust. Bellatrix. When he had first seen her after the breakout from Azkaban, she had been almost a raving lunatic, one battered and bruised by the rigors of the prison. Now, she was much more in control of herself—the cold killer she had been before her incarceration. And though she was appearing healthier all the longer she was out of Azkaban, her skin was still pasty, her eyes shadowed, and her posture suggested that she carried a weight which no one else could see. Of course Snape could never remember _ever_ seeing Bellatrix not looking at least slightly insane, but the ravages of Azkaban had certainly not been kind to her appearance. She was the one who had seemed to weather her stay in the prison the best—possibly outside of Black, which still annoyed Snape greatly. Of course, one had to possess some sanity before one could lose it, which explained Bellatrix's situation rather neatly.

"Bellatrix," Snape greeted evenly. It did not do to appear aggravated or impatient when speaking with the Dark Lord's most fanatical supporter.

"What are you doing here, Snape?" she challenged. Bellatrix had never trusted him—doubly so since he was ensconced in the middle of Dumbledore's camp. Of course, Bellatrix did not trust anyone—not even herself, Snape thought viciously—and treated everyone as though they were her master's greatest threat. But she seemed to have a special distrust for him, whereas most of the other Death Eaters either ignored him or accepted their master's word that he could be trusted. Pity for him, Snape thought, that he did not give credence to his lieutenant's opinion.

"Bringing news to the Dark Lord," Snape responded. He had learned very quickly that one did not argue with Bellatrix—one stated one's purpose quickly and efficiently, and did not make innuendos, veiled remarks or threats, or attempt any kind of subterfuge.

"Actual news or something fed to you by Dumbledore?"

Snape allowed a slight smile to appear on his features. "I assure you that the news I bring is a product of my own observation. The old fool of a Muggle-lover believes me to be his double agent."

The suspicion never left her eyes. "So you say."

"Indeed," Snape agreed. They stared at each other for several more moments, Bellatrix not giving an inch, while Snape maintained his air of almost bored indifference. He was well practiced at doing so—this particular confrontation had played out with depressing frequency since Bellatrix's removal from Azkaban.

"I will be watching you," said Bellatrix at length.

"So you say at every opportunity," Snape rejoined. He had also learned not to show weakness when confronted by Bellatrix, though to be too aggressive would undoubtedly end badly. Dealing with the woman was like walking a tightrope. "I trust that when Dumbledore is defeated and Potter lies dead at our master's feet that you will finally believe in my devotion to the Dark Lord."

"Your hatred for the boy is like a tangible force and _that_ is the only reason I give you the benefit of any doubt. If your hatred did not exist, I would flay you until your flesh hung in ribbons from your body and I was satisfied of your loyalty."

Snape did not even attempt to curb the disgusted glare or the contemptuous curl of his lip as he faced off with the madwoman. Bellatrix had always been graphic in her descriptions and she enjoyed causing pain far too much. Pain was a tool to be used toward a specific end—not something to be gloried in and of itself.

"I'm sure your bloodlust pleases our master," Snape replied, "but I suggest you direct it toward our enemies."

"As I am ever happy to serve," Bellatrix said. She turned away, and walked back in the direction she had come, but as she did, her voice floated back to him, "Remember. I will be watching…"

Snorting softly to himself, Snape continued walking toward the throne room. Bellatrix's threats were not to be taken lightly, but of far more immediate concern was the task he had come to complete. While Snape had a healthy respect for the mad witch's prowess, anything she could do to him would pale in comparison to what the Dark Lord would ultimately do if his actions should be discovered. The Dark Lord was not only powerful, but inventive and vindictive. Snape shuddered at the thought—the Cruciatus would undoubtedly be the least of his concerns should he be exposed.

Outside the throne room a single Death Eater was on duty—again one that Snape did not know by sight. Though one would perhaps have expected a higher level Death Eater to be guarding the Dark Lord's inner sanctum, the fact was that most of the higher level followers were members of society—many of them prominent—and as such it was not exactly feasible to have them constant guarding a door when they had other tasks to accomplish.

"The Dark Lord is within?" Snape demanded.

The man looked him over. "He is. He also instructed that he not be disturbed."

"He will see me," Snape responded, knowing that the Dark Lord had instructed him to come whenever he had something of importance to impart. Of course, should he deem the information to be of insufficient interest to warrant interrupting him, there would be consequences. Anything about Potter, however, almost ensured that the response would be neutral at the very least.

"It's your skin," the man responded before he turned and opened the door, allowing Snape to pass through.

The room was dim, as the Dark Lord usually liked it, and the man himself was seated in his throne, seemingly deep in thought. He looked up and Snape felt the uncomfortable feeling of the Dark Lord's eyes on him as he approached. Snape bowed deeply once he had reached the required distance from the throne.

"Severus," the Dark Lord greeted him, his voice almost a sibilant hiss. From the corner of the room, Snape could see the eyes of the Dark Lord's familiar glowing as it watched the proceedings, in its own way as protective of the master as Bellatrix was. The snake made Snape's blood run cold—it was almost as though the beast possessed a malevolent intelligence. It was altogether a stress-inducing creature, and Snape could hardly wait for the day it met its fate, hopefully in the company of its master as he made his way to the hell which awaited him.

"My Lord," Snape replied respectfully, putting the snake from his mind. "I bring you news of the Order and from Hogwarts, and in particularly about the Potter whelp."

The Dark Lord was apparently amused. "Your disdain for the boy is diverting as always, Severus. In fact, I believe you hate the lad nearly as much as I myself do."

"He is a spoiled brat who believes the world owes him everything on a platter. He is no different from his father." Snape deliberately ensured his voice and tone were offhand; the Dark Lord was well aware of his abhorrence for Potter, but it would not do to allow him to think that he was focused on Potter to the exclusion of all else. Death Eaters were expected to be able to master their emotions and concentrate on their tasks.

"As you have told me," the Dark Lord murmured. "Far be it for me to contradict your superior knowledge of the boy. I believe, however, you said that you have some information for me?"

"I do, My Lord. If you recall, you wished for me to watch for any mention of the prophecy by the Order."

"Yes?" the Dark Lord prompted.

"There has been some discussion lately, but there appears to be minimal concern. In fact, Dumbledore told both Black and Delacour recently that he believes the protections on the orb render it quite safe from any incursions to secure it."

The Dark Lord's eyes fluttered closed and he leaned back in his chair. "What is your game, Dumbledore?" he murmured to himself. His eyes then opened to slits and he peered at Snape through lidded eyes. "Dumbledore is either playing us, or he is underestimating my abilities. He is not fool enough to think that the protections cannot be broken—he knows more of magic than most, and he certainly understands that for every magic there exists a counter."

"If I may, My Lord," Snape spoke up diffidently. He resumed speaking when the Dark Lord indicated for him to do so, "I believe his opinion is that the magic is ancient and powerful and will take some time to bypass. I think he is merely stalling for time. He does not wish to expose Potter until it is certain that you shall obtain the prophecy. Perhaps he does this in the foolish hope that some other solution will present itself."

"He is foolish if he believes that," the Dark Lord said, leaning forward in his throne once more. "My followers draw closer to the orb even as we speak." He leaned back and watched Snape almost lazily. "I sometimes wonder at both the good fortune and the curse which put part of the prophecy in our hands," he said. Though his face was expressionless, his tone was almost testing in its quality. "You over heard the prophecy and I, rather fortuitously learned of the threat to my power. It is unfortunate that you were apparently evicted before you could hear the most important part."

"Are you certain I did not overhear all of it?" Snape asked, though he certainly knew that he had not. Dumbledore had never seen fit to reveal the rest to him and for that he was grateful—if the Dark Lord suspected for an instant that he knew the rest, he would stop at nothing to rip it from his mind.

The Dark Lord nodded distractedly. "I am convinced there is more. You were correct, of course, to come to me with what you heard," he continued to muse, "even though you did not have the full text. I am certain that it is imperative that I discover the rest. I feel as though I am groping blindly in the dark without anything to guide me without this knowledge. I must have it!"

"Yes, My Lord," Snape agreed.

"Now, I believe you mentioned something about the Potter boy?"

"Yes I did, My Lord. The boy seems… distracted lately."

Snape could tell that the Dark Lord's interest was piqued. "How so?"

"He seems more impatient than usual, and has been seen to be snapping at others, even his friends. I believe that he has discovered the existence of the prophecy."

_That_ little piece of information not only piqued the Dark Lord's interest, but grabbed his interest by the scruff of the neck and made it stand up and take notice. Of course, his only outward reaction was to raise an eyebrow and stare at Snape with an impassive gaze.

"Are you certain of this?

"As certain as I can be without asking him directly," Snape replied. This was the difficult part—convincing the Dark Lord of his information without any direct evidence. "Something happened during the Yule break, and Potter has come back to the school with a much more belligerent attitude than he had previously.

"I had actually thought he was making progress in controlling himself." This last was said with a sneer—the Dark Lord would be suspicious had he not expressed his disdain for Potter.

The Dark Lord eyed him intently. "That report does not necessarily agree with what some of my other eyes in the school have said."

"With all due respect, My Lord, your other eyes are all children, and some have done nothing but antagonize Potter then entire time he's been at Hogwarts."

Though he was silent for several moments, the Dark Lord's gaze never wavered. At last he said, "Point taken. So perhaps his growth remains, but his behavior has somehow altered toward his guardians."

"Perhaps," Snape allowed. "I will stress the fact that I have no proof other than what I have witnessed. But I _have_ heard him almost demanding that Dumbledore and Black tell him something."

Understanding bloomed in the Dark Lord's eyes. "He has discovered the existence of the prophecy, but has not been told what it says."

"That is my suspicion, My Lord," Snape confirmed. He kept his face impassive, though inside he felt nothing but contempt for the Dark Lord. He was so arrogant in his own superiority that leading him down the garden path was sometimes far easier than it should be.

The Dark Lord fixed him with a piercing stare. "Does Potter know of the existence of the Hall of Prophecy?" he demanded.

"That I cannot say, My Lord," Snape replied. "He may very well, given the time he spends with that little encyclopedic Mudblood. The Hall is not well known in our society perhaps, but it is not a secret either, and I do not exaggerate in saying that she has likely made her way through half of the Hogwarts library already. It is entirely possible that she has stumbled across a reference, though there is no guarantee that she would have informed him."

The Dark Lord again leaned back and his face took on a contemplative look. "It is too bad—such talent, such knowledge wasted because she is a Mudblood. If her background was a little more… distinguished, she would be a worthy addition to our forces."

Severus Snape was not fooled. The Dark paid all the appropriate lip service to the Pureblood movement, but Snape was aware of the fact that though he professed to be a Pureblood, the champion of all Purebloods himself was from a mixed background. The Dark Lord was for himself and nothing more—the Purebloods were merely a convenient tool for him to use to exert his control over the Wizarding world.

"Even if she was not a Mudblood, her devotion to Potter is absolute," Snape said out loud.

"Even more the pity," the Dark Lord replied, his tone offhanded. This was another thing about the Dark Lord—he was focused, and if something did not go his way, he immediately moved on. He would undoubtedly have jumped at the chance to recruit Granger if the opportunity existed; since it did not, he did not dwell upon it.

"But this news about Potter and the prophecy is quite interesting indeed," the Dark Lord continued. "Perhaps we should encourage his interest."

With those words, Snape knew that he had the Dark Lord where he wanted him. He doubted he would be told any more of the plan which was almost certainly taking shape in his dark mind, but that was not unexpected—he _was_ supposedly deep undercover in the enemy's camp, after all. The Dark Lord would most likely use the children of his followers in Hogwarts to provide any nudge he felt was required to induce Potter to the Hall of Prophecy. The trick was now to make it appear like Potter acted on his own, and that the Order had followed him when they discovered he was missing. Anything else and Snape's effectiveness as a spy would be drastically reduced at best.

"You have done very well in informing me of this news, Severus. This will be most useful in advancing our cause."

"Yes, My Lord," Snape said, preparing to depart. "I should return to Hogwarts before I am missed—is there anything further you require of me?"

"Nothing further at this moment. Send me word if you uncover anything more. I will handle this myself."

Bowing, Snape said nothing more as he turned and strode from the room. He quickly exited the manor and apparated back to Hogwarts. Once he had regained his quarters, he summoned his Patronus.

"Go to Dumbledore. The game is afoot."

* * *

It became quickly apparent that whatever Snape had told Voldemort, that it was having an effect. Harry felt like he drew more scrutiny than had been the case before, and comments were made in his presence that could only be construed as an attempt to nudge him in the direction of Voldemort's choosing.

Oh they were never overt—even Malfoy showed a smidgeon of Slytherin cunning, though Harry thought rather sardonically that he had much more Gryffindor impulsiveness in his character than anything else. But even had Harry not already expected _something_ to happen, he thought he would have wondered at the mini Death Eaters' sudden interest in prophecies, divination, and the meanings of various predictions.

The final nail in the coffin had come when Crabbe—or Goyle; it was sometimes difficult to distinguish them from each other, as both were rather like gorillas—asked a rather clumsily executed question in Divinations class.

"But Professor Trelawney, what happens if no one is there to listen to a prophecy? How would anyone ever know if it had happened?"

His wide eyes and almost childishly eager affectation almost prompted Harry to laugh in response, and less than stellar delivery signaled the fact that the question was taxing his limited mental acuity. But since Malfoy, Nott, and some of the other moderately intelligent Slytherins were not in the class, Harry supposed that Voldemort simply worked with what he had.

"An excellent question!" Trelawney enthused, in her overly dramatic manner. This question, of course, led to a long conversation in class about the existence of the Hall of Prophecy, about which Trelawney was perhaps unsurprisingly quite knowledgeable. A quick trip to the library, making sure that certain others saw his choice of reading material, and he could honestly say that he had "discovered" the details about the Hall.

It had all culminated to that Saturday evening when they would spring the trap on their—hopefully—unsuspecting enemies. The only thing left to do was to make certain that Voldemort knew that he would be leaving for the Ministry that evening. In order to do that, a little acting was in order.

At dinner, Harry sat beside Fleur ostensibly listening to her speak, which was not truly something he had to feign. Fleur, in on the plan as she was, was playing her part, as was Hermione. Both the girls had not been happy about their exclusion from the plan, and had not been hesitant to let him know of that fact, though they knew not to discuss it overtly in public. They had not badgered him precisely—neither had been that aggressive—but their displeasure had been hard to miss.

Harry listened to the conversation on the one hand—interspersed with Fleur and Hermione's quiet comments—while on the other he occasionally glanced in Malfoy's direction. As the ponce and his equally poncy friends had been watching Harry closely that week, they were to be the perfect dupes to induce Voldemort to believe that Harry was acting in the impulsive manner he wanted. They just needed the right set of circumstances to put their plan into motion.

When Malfoy finally rose from the table to leave, Harry watched him as he moved, followed by his usual cadre of sycophants, toward the door. At the same time Fleur, who had noticed Malfoy was leaving, once again speaking to him in a low, demanding voice. When the ferret left the room, Harry silently counted to five before suddenly standing and, fixing Fleur with a glare hissed, "That's enough, Fleur!" with sufficient volume to be heard by all who were close by. He then abruptly turned and stormed from the room, noting that all eyes were upon him as he had intended.

Outside the Great Hall he headed in the direction of Gryffindor tower, but was stopped by his betrothed before he could go more than a few steps.

"Harry, please stop," she called as he stalked away.

"No, Fleur!" Harry hissed as he stopped, turned and glared at her. Hermione was approaching him with Fleur.

"Harry, you have to see reason—"

"I think I've seen enough reason," Harry snapped. "They have no right to keep this from me and I intend to find out!"

"No, Harry," said Fleur in response. "It's too dangerous."

"I don't care! It's about me, so it's my right to know."

At the height of their feigned argument, Harry glanced across the hall, as though he was seeing Malfoy and his friends for the first time. The blond twit stood no more than thirty paces away and if the interested expression on his face was anything to go by, he had heard every word.

"Like what you see, Malfoy?" Harry jibed.

"I see absolutely nothing," Malfoy drawled in a bored tone of voice. "Just the Boy-Who-Should-Have-Died along with his creature girlfriend and an insignificant Mudblood."

"Shove off Malfoy," Harry growled. "I'll shove your wand so far up your arse that you'll have to open your mouth to cast anything!"

Malfoy was clearly taken aback—Harry's words were said with such a fierceness that he was clearly not certain how to respond. _Maybe I should do this more often_, Harry mused. Rarely did mere words have the ability to make the ponce back off.

"Let's go," Malfoy said to his friends as he turned to head towards the Slytherin common room. "Potty and the creature obviously need a little make up time."

But Harry had already turned away and was stalking off, Fleur and Hermione in hot pursuit. They made their way to a nearby corridor and, after confirming that there was no one nearby, ducked into an unused classroom. Harry turned to the two girls and grinned at them.

"Well, do you think Malfoy bought it?"

Hermione snorted. "He's gullible enough for anything."

The three laughed softly at Hermione's statement, still mindful of the fact that they were acting a part, and left the room, making their way to the tower, once again Harry walked swiftly while the girls hurried to keep up. Once there, Harry made his way to one of the sofas in front of the fire and sat down heavily. A quick glance confirmed that there was no one in evidence in the common room, and Harry allowed himself to drop the pretense of anger.

"Dobby," he called, smiling when the excitable house-elf popped into the room in front of him.

"The great Harry Potter Sir is being calling Dobby?"

"Yes, Dobby," Harry told him with a smile. "Remember—watch Malfoy and let me know if he tries to send a letter or communicate outside the castle. But only come when I'm alone—no one else can know about this."

"Dobby be's doing it," Dobby said while bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. "Dobby lets you know when nasty master's son be's contacting his father."

The three friends exchanged looks and chuckled as he popped away. "I swear I get winded just watching him," Hermione observed with a grin.

"He does seem to have an… excess of energy," was Fleur's reply.

Harry smiled but said nothing, his mind already focused on what was to come that evening. He was not precisely nervous—it was not as though he had never before faced danger, after all, and for someone who had faced down a sixty foot basilisk, Voldemort's thugs were just not that much of a challenge. No nervousness was not what he was feeling, though he was also being careful not to underestimate the Malfoys of the world. He was more determined that the plan should go exactly as it had been designed. Retrieving the prophecy and ensuring that Voldemort did not hear it were both important, but getting Fudge to admit his return was just as critical.

"Pre-battle jitters?" Fleur questioned from his side.

Harry turned to look at her and noticed the intent expression on her face and the look of concern which she directed at him.

"I just want everything to go the way we planned it."

Hermione and Fleur exchanged a glance before the former spoke. "What was that saying? 'No battle plan survives contact with the enemy,' especially when curses are being thrown around by Death Eaters."

"I'm sure that whoever made that statement was specifically talking about Malfoy, Macnair and the others," Harry said with some amusement.

"Prat!" Hermione replied, slapping his arm and leaning into his shoulder. "You will be careful, won't you?" she asked after a moment's silence.

"You know me," Harry replied.

"That's exactly what we're worried about," was Fleur's dry reply.

* * *

The rest of the evening passed away with excruciating sluggishness, prompting Harry to wish that time would not be quite so mulish when it came to passing slowly when anticipation was at its highest. He tried to concentrate on his homework, but the approaching events sapped his attention and left him feeling irritable—he wanted nothing more than to be able to get to it and do what needed to be done. Even the appearance of Dobby—who showed up when Harry excused himself to go to the loo—to tell him of the fact that Malfoy had been seen heading to the owlery within moments of his argument with the girls, was not enough to settle his restlessness. He immediately sent his Patronus off to Dumbledore to let him know before rejoining his friends in the common room, more impatient than ever to be off. And through it all he still had to act as though he was still angry with both of his female friends, which led to a long evening, spent largely in the company of nothing more than his own thoughts.

It was unfortunate that this seemed to draw the attention of his closest friends, who could obviously see that something was amiss. Harry tried to ignore their looks and whispered conversations, but things came to a head late in the evening when they apparently decided that they could no longer keep their silence.

"What's going on, Harry?" Neville demanded quietly. "I haven't seen you this jittery since before the third task last year. Is there something we should know about?"

All around him his other friends—consisting of the four Weasleys and Neville—nodded their heads in agreement. Perhaps surprisingly Ron, who was as impatient as anyone Harry knew, was silent, seemingly content to just watch and listen..Knowing that the matter must remain absolutely secret, Harry attempted to prevaricate.

"Nothing is going on, guys." His rebuttal was unconvincing, even to his own ears.

Ron fixed him with a stare of equal parts exasperation, and some quality which seemed to suggest that Harry thought him to be witless.

"Harry, we've known each other for more than four years, and I fancy I know you better than anyone except maybe Hermione. I think I can tell when something is up."

"We only want to help, Harry," Ginny chimed in, echoed by the others.

Harry cast a surreptitious glance about the room. The room was busy as would be expected on a Saturday evening, and though no one appeared to be paying them any attention, there were far too many people to overhear them. The fact that this was the _Gryffindor_ common room and that just about everyone in it should be friendly was no consolation—one could never be too careful, especially in the magical world.

"Look, Harry," one of the twins spoke up, "it's been obvious to us all week that something's about to happen."

"Like Ginny said, we just want to help," said the other.

Harry glared at them with exasperation. "Oh, so the whole school expects that I'm up to something?" he demanded.

"I reckon that only those who know you well suspect anything," Ron replied. "Daphne and Tracey knew something was up, and Susan and Luna know, but I doubt anyone else has noticed anything."

Somewhat mollified, Harry glanced at Fleur, who shrugged her shoulders. Clearly it was his decision on what to say.

Sighing, Harry once again glanced around the room before leaning in slightly. "Look, I can't tell you much of anything. Yes, something is about to happen, but Dumbledore knows about it and supports it."

Fixing Ron with a significant glare, Harry continued, "Remember going after the stone in first year?" Ron responded with a tight nod. "This has to be kept secret for the same reason. It's very important. I'm sorry I can't tell you more."

The look Harry received in return made him actually _feel_ stupid. Ron, at least, had proven that he knew how to keep a secret, and the others were certain to do anything but get him in trouble or talk to the wrong person.

"Are you sure, Harry?" Ron asked.

Immediately Harry felt a pang of guilt—Ron had been his closest friend for the past four years, but this year they had drifted apart a little. There was just so much more going on and given the time he had been spending with his betrothed, and now with Hermione in the picture, that problem had been exacerbated. Proving that he had grown quite a lot in the past several months, Ron had not complained; he had seemed to relish the time they _had_ spent together and content himself with whatever Harry had been able to spare.

And then there were Neville and the twins. George and Fred, being two years older, had never been truly close and Neville had always kind of been on the outside looking in. All three had grown closer to him over the course of the year, and Harry knew that he had no greater supporters or fiercer champions than the three of them. And Ginny, though in previous years the most he had ever been able to get out of her was a squeak and a blush, had matured and become almost like a little sister to him. They were the best friends he could ever want.

"Look everyone, I know you're not happy about being excluded. Trust me that it's best that as few people as possible know what is about to happen. Don't worry—I'm pretty sure you'll all get your chance to get your licks in. With Voldemort running around I can almost guarantee it."

His five friends shared a glance before they turned back to him, Ron, once again, serving as the spokesman. "We'll trust you. But we'd like to be included in your plans in the future."

"As much as I can, I will," Harry replied warmly. "Now Ron, what about a game of chess?"

* * *

Later that evening, Harry snuck downstairs from the dorm, after confirming that all of his dorm mates were asleep. It had taken quite some time to convince all of his friends to go to bed that evening, but eventually they had seemed resigned to the fact that whatever was about to happen would happen without their involvement. Hermione and Fleur, however, had been a rather curious goodnight. Rather than fussing over him as he might have expected, they had each left him with a kiss and a simple request to be careful and had gone to their beds for the night, though Harry suspected they would not be able to sleep. Harry had left enough time for the castle to quiet before he slipped from his bed and put on some dark clothes, and then stolen from the dorm, careful to avoid waking his dorm mates.

Before he stepped down from the stairs into the common room he activated the Marauder's Map and made doubly certain it was empty. He further examined the rest of the Map for any hint of activity; as it was now past midnight, even the head students should be in their dorms—and Harry certainly did not relish the thought of running into Roger Davies, who had been silent and had ignored him thoroughly since his set down—but the teachers often still patrolled until quite late, and Filch, in particular, was known to wander the halls until the wee hours, hoping to catch some student out of bounds. Sure enough, Harry could see the cantankerous caretaker prowling the sixth floor corridor with his cat close by. A quick glance at the other levels showed no one in evidence.

Keeping the map in his free hand, Harry walked forward and exited via the portrait hole. From there he made his way toward the third floor corridor, making sure that there was no one blocking his path—Filch had by this time made his way to the seventh floor. Upon obtaining the corridor, he paced down its length until he arrived at his destination—the statue of the one-eyed witch.

"Dissendium," he murmured, stepping back as the statue moved aside, revealing a dark passage behind. He stepped into the passageway, waiting until the statue moved back into its original place, driving the long passage into pitch blackness.

Only then did he raise his wand and intone, "_Lumos!_" The light from his wand illuminated his surroundings and Harry peered off into the distance, seeking any sign of movement in its depths. Once he was satisfied, he began walking down deeper into the earth.

The passage was old and musty, and smelt of decay and dust. The dust on the floor had been disturbed, several times, if Harry was not mistaken, but he was not concerned as he knew that the twins used this passage regularly to bring banned items or party treats to the school. How it was that the proprietors of the shop were not aware of the traffic through their store, Harry could not be certain, but in this instance he was grateful for it.

Eventually the passage ended at a ladder which led up to a trapdoor set in the ceiling of the passage. Grasping the rungs, Harry climbed to the top and, releasing the catch, cautiously pushed up on the door. In the faint light of his wand emanating through the opening, Harry could see crates and boxes, some labeled with writing or pictures of what they contained. Harry could not see any movement.

He opened the door fully and heaved himself out through the hole, pausing to more clearly look about. Once he was satisfied that the room was empty, other than the sweets and other produce, and Harry pulled himself to his feet and closed the trapdoor. In an instant, the trapdoor disappeared and the cellar floor looked like a normal floor, with nothing to suggest that a passageway lurked beneath.

Stopping for a moment, Harry took out his invisibility cloak and threw it over himself, ensuring he was completely covered. And then, confident that he could not be seen, he left the cellar. The stairs were silent and well maintained, and in a moment Harry had emerged from the cellar into the familiar confines of the sweet shop. The shop was, of course, dark and lifeless, but Harry ignored his surroundings and, once he had taken a quick glance out into the street, he stepped from the sweet shop out onto High Street.

The street was illuminated by the light of the moon which was approaching full, shining off the cobblestones and the snow drifts, providing added luster to the shops and houses of Hogsmeade. It was, Harry reflected, a quaint and beautiful sight and a glimpse into an older world, something which the magical world often provided.

Now was not the time to wax poetic, though. Keeping to the shadows as much as possible to avoid any possibility of detection, Harry made his way down the street and exited the town in the direction of Hogwarts. When he had reached a point which was beyond the town and still clear of the Hogwarts wards, he stopped, removed his cloak, and raised his wand.

With a flash and a bang, the Knight Bus appeared before him and Harry climbed aboard. He was met with the same characters as he had before his third year—the driver, Ernie, with his thick glasses and almost wild hair, and Stan the conductor, with his dirty and tattered uniform, and the unkempt mess of hair under his equally dirty hat.

"Look here, Ernie, it seems we got the lad from a couple a summers ago," said Stan, looking at Harry with a bored expression. "What was yer name? Newt or somethin'?

"Yes sir," said Harry simply, as he climbed aboard the bus. Though he had given Neville's name as his own in third year, it did not matter much what these two called him, as long as he was delivered to the Ministry. And if someone was watching, all the better—the name would not matter and it would cement in Voldemort's mind that he was off to the Ministry on his own, further baiting the trap.

"Where are you going then, young Newt?" Stan asked.

"The entrance to the Ministry of Magic please."

Ernie frowned. "The Ministry? Don't suppose many right thinking folks are there at this hour."

"That's where I need to go," replied Harry.

"Suit yerself," said Stan, and he sat down on his seat beside the door.

The bus was empty of any other passengers, on the lowest level anyway, and the bus contained the same rolling beds and brackets carrying burning torches as the last time. Knowing he was in for another rough ride, Harry braced himself as well as he could against the side of the bus as they took off.

"Can I get you a cup o' hot chocolate?" Stan asked as the bus began swerving through the countryside.

"No thanks," Harry said, reflecting at the mess it would make the first time the bus turned a corner. "So are you fellows always on this bus?" he asked, making conversation.

Stan shook his head as he picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail. "Nah. We does the night shift. There's another crew fer the day."

Harry fell silent, intent as he was on not being flung across the bus. Stan, it seemed, was not interested in making conversation, as he continued to pick at his teeth and generally ignore the mayhem which was occurring around him.

The ride that night was much longer than it had been the first night he had ridden the bus—unsurprising, really, as the distance was far longer than it had been then. Still, it obviously had some magical means of travelling quickly. Tt was less than an hour later when he was dropped off in the middle of London beside the old red phone booth he remembered from earlier that year, before the bus once again left with a bang.

The street was quiet and no one was in evidence and the old phone booth stuck out like a Griffon in a tea shop. It was, however, the entrance to the Ministry and remembering it from the previous summer, Harry was assaulted by the memory of other things—his trial, and first experience with Umbridge, most notably.

Shaking off such memories, Harry approached the phone booth, opened the door and looked at the old-fashioned phone which hung on the opposite wall. He was reaching for the phone when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. As always, thanks to everyone who continues to follow this story. Sorry, I missed a post—you can blame it on the season. Hopefully it won't happen again.

2. Mind you, I'm not promising that it won't. For any who follow The Wheel of Time, you'll know that the final book comes out on Tuesday, and I expect I'll pretty much swallow it whole. I'll try to complete the next chapter on time, but we'll just have to see how it goes. But after following this thing for twenty years, I feel like I deserve a little closure. If you're a fan of fantasy fiction, and haven't read it yet, what are you waiting for? It is one of the greatest fantasy sagas of our time, and by far the most complex, though all the mythology in Tolkien's works is equally detailed and intricate.

3. For anyone interested, I loosely based my description of Voldemort's manor on "Skyfall". Not completely, though—Voldemort is hiding in a remote location, but there are more woods nearby, and rolling hills closer to the manor, rather than the fairly flat land essentially surrounded by low mountains.

4. I hope Snape came across as I intended—Snape is definitely _not_ a nice man and had circumstances been different, he would have been Voldemort's devoted follower, though more due to the coattails effect than any personal belief in the Pureblood cause. Snape is out for himself, pure and simple, and would have been, regardless of what happened. It was the killing of Lily which caused him to turn so completely against Voldemort.

5. Finally, I don't know if anyone is interested, but I'll be starting to go over the earlier chapters soon and updating them, correcting errors, and so on. This should be completed simultaneously with my continued writing, so it should not interrupt the posting schedule. I'll also be removing most author's notes as I go, and will likely remove the "Previously" section at the beginning of each chapter. My primary reason is that I want to fix a few glaring errors that were pointed out after posting. Beyond that, this will likely be my last long fic, and I'd like to leave it archived in the best shape I possibly can.


	42. Chapter 41 – Defying a Dark Lord

**Previously:** Ron and some of the other DA members speak about Harry and they agree that something is up. Snape approaches Voldemort and feeds him the misinformation about Harry and the prophecy, intimating that Harry has discovered it existence and wants to retrieve it. Harry stages an argument about the prophecy with Fleur and Hermione, making sure that Malfoy overhears. After everyone else has gone to bed, he sneaks out of the tower and goes to Hogsmeade through the tunnel of the one-eyed witch. There he summons the Knight Bus and arrives at the Ministry, only to find that someone else is there too...

* * *

**Chapter 41 – Defying a Dark Lord**

Harry started for an instant at seeing the unexpected movement. In the blink of an eye, however, he was on the move, stepping swiftly back through the still-open door of the phone booth and out into the London street where he would have more room to maneuver. He pivoted once he had left the restricting confines of the phone booth and brought his wand to bear against the shadowy outline when now appeared before him.

And stared into the familiar blue eyes of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The curse died on his lips as he peered into the face of his betrothed, who stood regarding him without any expression, while to her side his other female friend watched him in exactly the same manner.

Later, Harry would reflect on the mysteries and inconsistencies of the human mind. Fleur and Hermione's sudden appearance should have been a reason for consternation, for Harry had thought that they were safe, if not in their beds, then at least back at Hogwarts. He had known they likely would not sleep due to worry over him, but at least they would not be in danger themselves. His thoughts at that moment were anything but these, however, and once he had time to reflect, he could only think back on it ruefully, wondering at the thought processes which had led him to his realization. Because, it was at that moment that several things clicked in the confines of Harry's mind. His thoughts and feelings, remembrances of events, both significant, and seemingly inconsequential; all of these things in that moment came together and led him to one inescapable truth—he was in love with Fleur, and his feelings were fierce and without hesitation. And at the same moment, he also understood that the feelings he had always held for Hermione, which he had perhaps suppressed in the past, matched what he felt for Fleur in every way. How he had come to such a conclusion he could not say—perhaps it was the sudden and unexpected shock of seeing them here, or maybe he was just admitting it now, of all times, when they could both come under fire.

Of course, such recollections also brought the situation to the forefront of his mind and snapped the bemused disposition which had settled over him. They were both dressed in tight fitting pants, sweaters and jackets, dark colored and comfortable much the same as the items he wore himself. It was clear that however they had come to be here, it had not been the decision of a moment. Anger bloomed to the surface of his thoughts.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, capturing them both squarely within the radius of his fury filled gaze.

"We're here to support and help you," was Fleur's simple reply.

Harry glared at her. "I thought we had agreed that I would do this by myself."

"_You_ agreed," Hermione replied. "_We_ did not."

Shaking his head with some exasperation, Harry glanced around noting their exposed position. Spying a narrow alley some short distance from them, Harry took both of their hands hand marched them into the dubious safety of its confines.

"This is dangerous!" he spat, turning and focusing on them once they had entered the alley.

"You don't say?" was Hermione's somewhat sarcastic reply.

"Harry, Hermione," Fleur said in a chiding tone to both of them. Harry took a step back, attempting to find his composure. "Harry, we are not going away. You will have to accept our help."

Watching Fleur's expression as she spoke, Harry felt certain that her determination was equal to his own, and he knew that she was as stubborn in her own way as he was himself. Hermione was, of course, no less obstinate, as she had proved many times during the course of their acquaintance. It appeared like he had no choice, though he was well aware of the fact that his conscience would torture him with guilt should anything happen to either one, especially in light of his newly discovered feelings for them both.

Still, now was not the time to consider that or to indulge in fears of what _might_ happen. Harry saw clearly that there was no way to avoid their participation, apart from trussing them up and sending them back to Hogwarts by Portkey. And if anyone was watching them, sending the girls away now would look suspicious. However, their timely arrival would only further the ruse they were trying to create—it would appear as though they found out about his departure and, given their public argument from earlier in the day, assume he was attempting to reach the orb, and had followed him here. Knowing their general personalities, it should be very believable that they would not allow him to send them away.

"All right," Harry replied grudgingly. "Be careful. I don't want anything to happen to either of you.

"We could say the same about you," Hermione murmured.

Harry smiled at her, before turning a serious eye on them both. "But don't think that this discussion is at an end," he stated determinedly. "I'm really not happy that you followed me here, and this isn't the first time you have both gone behind my back and ignored my wishes."

"We didn't expect you would be," Fleur replied calmly. "And we knew you would be unhappy with us. But we both decided that this was far too important." Hermione merely nodded to indicate that she had heard and accepted that they would need to speak about it again later.

Harry peered at them for several more moments before he motioned back toward the phone booth. "Then I suggest we get moving."

They stepped from the alley back into the street, which appeared as empty as it had earlier. But Harry was certain that they were being watched. Hopefully the subterfuge would hold.

They moved back to the phone booth and Harry opened the door, moving to step inside. Before he did so, a thought crossed his mind and he turned and looked at Fleur. "How did you get here anyway?"

Hermione and Fleur exchanged a look and a ghost of a smile appeared on both of their faces. "We apparated. We followed you through the tunnel and waited until you had been gone for a while, then we apparated here. We had only been here for about ten minutes before you showed up."

Shaking his head—and trying not to think about how he could have avoided a long and uncomfortable ride on the Knight Bus—he stepped into the phone booth, motioning Fleur and Hermione to follow him in. "It's a bit of a tight fit, but the whole booth goes down to the Atrium."

From behind him, Harry felt a pair of very feminine bodies press up against him, while one set of arms hugged him around the waist and another hugged him around the shoulders. "I believe we can handle being close to you," Hermione's voice whispered in his ear, as she kissed him lightly on the cheek.

Astonished, Harry glanced back to see both girls regarding him with amused grins. "I am so getting you for that," he growled as he turned and took the dialing the number six two four four two on the ancient rotary phone and trying to ignore their tinkling laughter.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic," a female voice said as the dialer stopped moving. "Please state your name and business."

Though he would rather not have given their names, he now knew there was no choice in the matter. With a certain determination to ignore exactly what he was getting them into, Harry spoke confidently into the phone, "Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Fleur Delacour. We're here to find something important to me."

Three silver badges appeared from the chute and dropped into Harry's outstretched hand. Turning the topmost over, Harry laughed as he showed it to the girls. On the front was engraved the words, _Harry Potter, Treasure Hunter_.

"Visitors to the Ministry," the voice once again spoke, "you are required to submit to a search and present your wands for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."

With that, the phone booth lowered into the pavement, leaving the street and everything in it behind. It was only a few moments before they came to a rest against the cold stone of the Atrium floor.

They stepped out and took stock of their surroundings. Contrary to the message, there was no security in evidence anywhere—the Atrium appeared to be deserted. Sharing a significant glance with the girls, Harry began walking toward the lifts, past the golden fountain and the low murmur of its softly flowing water from various points on the five statues. Nothing moved and no one came forward to challenge their progress. It seemed like the message had been received—Voldemort had made certain that there was no one to prevent Harry from reaching the Hall.

Putting thoughts of Voldemort and what he might be planning from his mind, Harry led the way to the lift and stepped in, pressing the button for the ninth floor after the girls entered behind him. Then, when the lift stopped, the same voice from the telephone booth announced the level and he stepped through the open door, taking stock of his surroundings.

Outside the lift was a corridor with a single black door at its end. The corridor was bare and devoid of any life. Harry glanced at the two girls who both shrugged at his unspoken question. Steeling himself for the upcoming conflict, Harry braced himself, walked to the black door and opened it.

He found himself in a circular room, black as pitch, with a number—perhaps as many as a dozen—identical black doors. Each was unmarked, and gave no indication whatsoever as to what lay behind them.

"Wait a minute, Harry," Hermione exclaimed as she stepped in behind him. Harry stopped, and peered back at Hermione, thinking that as long as the girls showed up, they should play up the fact that this had been an impulsive decision and he should not know anything about what was ahead.

Hermione stood there watching him, as though deep in thought. "If we close this door, it would be very easy to lose track of which door we came through. And since this department is supposed to be secure, I wouldn't put it past the Unspeakables to have some sort of security here to prevent people from continuing on."

"What do you suggest?" asked Harry, playing along. In reality, he knew which door they should be going through.

"I think we should keep the door open while we try the other doors. The book I read said that the entrance to the Hall of Prophecy is through something called the 'Time Room.' We should know it when we see it."

"I'll open the doors, you cover me," Fleur said, moving to the door directly to the left of the one through which they had entered.

"Why?" Harry asked, trying to appear perplexed at Fleur's suggestion.

"Just in case," was Fleur's airy reply. "We might still run into someone, and we don't want to be caught by them. Besides, Dumbledore said that Voldemort is trying to get his hands on the prophecy—they might be here now."

"All right," Harry agreed, taking up a position to Fleur's right, want pointed at the first door.

"First, let me mark this door," Hermione said, as she held the door open with one hand, while with the other she hit the door with a coloring charm, leaving a large yellow blob in the center at eye height. She turned back to Harry and Fleur and smiled. "This way it will be easier to find our way out."

Harry nodded and smiled at her ingenuity before turning to the other doors. The first two doors, in fact, would not budge, and a simple _Alohamora_ would not open them. "I think we can discount both of these," Fleur suggested after trying the second. "I don't know what kind of research goes on here, but I would think that the Hall is accessible to people who want to look up their prophecies, so they wouldn't keep it locked."

Harry thought that was reasonable, so he nodded and moved on to the third door. This one did in fact open, but it opened into a dark room, with a number of planets floating in mid air. "That's a bit of an odd room, isn't it?" Harry muttered.

Fleur merely smiled and moved on to the next door, which also did not open. When she pushed on the fifth door, it swung inward and revealed a long rectangular room brilliantly lit. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the sudden light, but when they did, a curious sight met their eyes. The room was filled with tables and shelves, some large and some small, and every surface was filled with all manner of items related to time. There were clocks, from watches—a large table was devoted to pocket and wrist watches of all sizes and shapes—carriage clocks, wall clocks, grandfather clocks, and even a few cuckoo clocks hanging on the walls, leading Harry to speculate that when the top of the hour came around, the level of noise in the room would likely be deafening with all the bells, cuckoos, chimes, and everything else which would ring simultaneously. In another part of the room, several shelves and nearby tables were filled with hourglasses, ancient and new, ornate and simple, large and small. Then Harry looked to another part of the room and saw the light shining off a shelf containing a large number of time turners, from the simple small hourglasses on a chain, like the one Hermione had used during her third year, to much larger and more unwieldy devices which could only sit upon a desk when used. Of course, that begged the question of how they would transform one back into time, considering how the time turner Hermione would only turn someone who had the chain around their neck at the time. Harry glanced at Hermione, noticing her peering at the time turners with some interest.

Finally, toward the far side of the room against the left wall there stood a large crystal bell jar. The dazzling light which filled the room emanated from the bell jar, and became brighter and more intense the closer they moved toward it. From within its depths, something moved, but Harry decided against investigating—they were here for a purpose, after all, and regardless of his curiosity, he would not allow himself to become sidetracked.

They passed quickly and silently through the Time Room, intent upon the door which stood at the far end. To either side there were several other doors, but where they led to Harry could not say. Upon attaining the far end of the room, Harry opened the door, and stepped into the room beyond.

The room into which they stepped was as different from the Time Room as night was to day. The room was large and spacious, the ceiling towering high over their heads, and extending out into the distance. It was gloomy and dark, containing rows upon rows of shelves, and upon each shelf sat rows of dusty orbs, some dull and grey, while others contained a swirling mist, which glowed with an eldritch light. They had arrived.

"Do you have any idea where to find it?" Fleur asked.

Harry, who had moved closer to the shelves to inspect the orbs more closely, shook his head. "I hadn't thought that far in advance, to be honest."

"Honestly!" Hermione said with a huff. "You could have spent hours and days in here looking for a prophecy which might be on highest shelf of the last structure in the room."

Harry almost grinned at the way Hermione was playing it up. Though they were not completely certain, Dumbledore speculated that in addition to the enchantments which physically prevented someone from removing a prophecy which was not their own, there were also likely protections on the orbs against any spell damage. Considering the vindictive retaliation against the removal of an orb, it was likely that hitting them with a spell would also provoke some retaliation. Therefore, they expected that the Death Eaters would not move against them until they left the Hall of Prophecy. That did not necessarily mean that no one was watching them now—on the contrary, they probably had at least one person whose task it was to make certain that Harry took the prophecy before he left the room. And then there was the likelihood that they were being observed by someone from the Order. No doubt Hermione and Fleur's presence had come as a surprise and an unwelcome one at that. No matter though—what was done was done.

"Do _you_ have any idea how to find it?" Harry snapped back at Hermione, feigning annoyance.

"As a matter of fact, I do," replied Hermione a trifle smugly. "The prophecies are catalogued in the order of their occurrence. Each prophecy orb appears next to the one which was created previously, and each orb is tagged with the date, the initials of the person who made it, and the initials of the person or persons who heard it, if any, and the subject of the prophecy, if known."

"Wait a second," Harry interrupted. "Does the magic automatically know who the prophecy is about? How can it know?"

Hermione shrugged. "Sometimes the name of the person is mentioned in the prophecy. Sometimes not. In any case, the Keeper of the Hall of Prophecy reviews each new prophecy and makes any notes necessary to the identification tag."

"Hold on a moment!" Harry said, surprised. _This_ was something he had not known before and it did not make a lot of sense. "If the keeper knows what the prophecy says, then couldn't he just tell anyone about it?"

"The Keeper is protected by enchantments and oaths which keep him from compromising the prophecies," Hermione explained. "He is also unknown to all but a few Unspeakables. Besides," Hermione continued with a grin, "I'm certain he could not remember all the prophecies he would have read—there are thousands upon thousands here, and each keeper must have had to review several hundred at least."

Harry was still a little skeptical about the whole arrangement, but he merely nodded absently. "Well, we'd better get on with this."

The nearest shelves contained prophecies which were ancient—some reaching back further than the era before Christ. The prophecies here were mostly dull and lifeless, leading Harry to speculate that those prophecies were ones which had already been fulfilled. Here and there was an empty spot on a shelf—likely orbs which had been removed by their owners—though most still stood in their original locations. As they progressed down the hall, not only did the dates progress, but the number of "live" prophecies also increased.

"You know, I have trouble believing that all these prophecies were made," said Harry as they moved deeper into the room.

"Why is that?" Fleur asked.

"Well, look at all these," Harry replied with a wave of his hand. "There must be thousands of them."

"There are thousands of years of history here," Hermione replied. "But I think you're mistaking true, world altering prophecy with someone simply making a prediction."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked curiously.

"Not all prophecy predicts some earth-shattering event. While some obviously do, and can be a form of guidance, assuming you can interpret them properly, not all prophecy is that important or predicts events of such magnitude. In fact, the vast majority of these spheres likely would only have been of interest to a specific person. For example, there may be one which simply talks about what a friend will have for breakfast tomorrow."

Harry frowned. "It doesn't seem that useful to me."

"And it likely isn't," Hermione agreed. "Of course I'm being a little simplistic and silly. But take for example, the possibility that a person wondering openly if they would ever have children. Say then that their brother was a seer, and gave a prediction that that person would have two children. Then, he also predicted the person his brother would need to marry to have those two children. Again, I'm being a little simplistic and silly, but I think you get the point. It's not useful to anyone other than the subject of the prediction, is it?"

"I see your point. But it does seem to kind of devalue the talent in general."

"Perhaps," said Hermione. "But remember that not everything is so earth-shaking. There are likely only a few events per century which have the potential to radically alter the lives of a large part of the population. If a seer has the talent, but not the opportunity to make a major prediction, then their talent will manifest in other ways."

Harry grunted but did not respond. The topic was interesting, he supposed, but at that moment he was more concerned about finding the prophecy and goading the Death Eaters into the waiting trap.

They continued walking for some moments when they stopped to inspect the shelves more closely. The shelves still went on much deeper into the room, but after few rows, the shelves were bare of any prophecies. They had come to the mid 1970's, and knew they were drawing closer.

"Do you know exactly when this prophecy was made?" Fleur asked, looking at one of the nearby shelves.

Harry considered the question. "I'm not sure, but it would have had to have been some time before I was born. Likely some time in late spring 1980, I would think."

As Hermione had stated, each prophecy had a tag attached, containing a date, and two or more sets of initials. They started several rows from the empty shelves, hoping that that would give them the general location of the prophecy—how many prophecies could have been made in the past fifteen years, after all? If Harry's luck held, then it could be a great many!

They had searched the shelves for about fifteen minutes when Fleur said, "Harry, I think I've found it."

Hermione and Harry crowded around Fleur, looking over her shoulders. She was standing in front of an orb, one of those which glowed with a swirling murky light. On the tag which was attached to the orb was written the year 1980, and the words:

_S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D  
Dark Lord and (?)Harry Potter_

"This would seem to be the one," Harry said in an awed tone of voice. It was one thing to know that a prophecy had been made about you, and a completely different thing to be confronted with the evidence.

"You had better take it so we can go," Hermione whispered when Harry hesitated. Her voice contained a nervous quality which Harry could well understand. He stood upon the brink—the point of no return. Though to be honest, the point of no return had likely been achieved upon arriving at the Ministry. The Death Eaters were not about to allow them to leave without his retrieving the prophecy, and even the knowledge of the upcoming confrontation did not dispel the nervousness.

Resolutely, Harry controlled his emotions and reached out to grasp the sphere in his hand, lifting it from its place of rest. The sphere was not cool as he would have expected; rather it was warm to the touch—the soothing warmth of hot chocolate on a cold day. It may have simply been Harry's eyes playing tricks on him, but for an instant after he grasped the orb, he fancied that the cloudy light within flared slightly, before it settled back into its calm swirling motion.

"So what do I do with it now?" Harry asked.

"I think it would be better if you worried about that back at Hogwarts," Fleur said with a slight scolding shade in her voice.

"You're probably right," Harry acknowledged. "Let's get out of here."

They retraced their steps back down the long aisle to the door, and though Harry at times fancied he could see motion to either side of them, nothing stepped forward to challenge them. Dumbledore had been correct—the Death Eaters would wait until they had cleared the Hall of Prophecy before they made their move. The question remained as to whether they would wait until they arrived back at the atrium, or if it would come in the next chamber.

They stepped from the Hall and back into the bright light of the Time Room, which was, of course, where the Death Eaters struck. Facing them, arranged in a semi-circle stood a dozen Death Eaters, curiously, none of them wearing their disgusting costumes. All the usual suspects were there—Malfoy, with his aristocratic air and sneering expression; Macnair, who he remembered from third year and the incident with Buckbeak; a couple of hulking men who bore resemblance to the local Hogwarts gorillas Crabbe and Goyle; and a witch who cackled and smirked, and appeared to have only the most tenuous grip on sanity—undoubtedly, the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange.

"What's the matter, Potter?" Bellatrix cooed at him, as though she was speaking to a little child. "You didn't expect to see us? Poor wittow Potter wants his mommy?"

Harry refused to rise to her bait—instead, he simply rolled his eyes and looked expectantly at Malfoy.

"You have reacted exactly as our master said you would," the blond Death Eater said with a smug smile. "Now, hand over that sphere and we will allow you to leave."

"Oh you will, will you?" Harry drawled.

Malfoy merely smiled at him. "Surely you realize you are outnumbered and outclassed? You should give up the orb before one of your pretty little friends gets hurt."

"There is no point in speaking with trained animals," Bellatrix said. As she spoke, her giggling suddenly ceased and she stared at them with an almost rabid intensity. "Take the orb from him and torture his little friends if he refuses."

"You see?" Malfoy said with a smirk. "I shall just have to allow Bellatrix to hurt you if you do not turn it over. Now give me the orb."

He reached out with his hand as he spoke his last words, but Harry was not about to be intimidated. He put the orb in his pocket and assumed a defensive stance, ready to defend the girls if one of the Death Eaters suddenly developed an itchy trigger finger.

"Why does Voldemort want this anyway?"

"You _dare_ to speak the name of the Dark Lord?" Bellatrix demanded, a feral light almost glowing in her eyes.

"You mean Voldemort?" Harry asked deliberately, watching with satisfaction as she became almost apoplectic with rage. "Of course I do. Like Dumbledore always said, fear to speak a name is merely giving that person a sort of power, and it's not like it's anything but a silly made-up name created by a Halfblood with an inferiority complex. Incidentally, he couldn't even run from his true name—I am Lord Voldemort is just an anagram of the name he was born with. "

His words had the intended effect, as Bellatrix shot off a curse, while screaming at him. "Defiler! Foul-mouthed little scum!"

Harry was ready and his quickly cast shield deflected the curse into their air where it struck the ceiling. At the same time, Malfoy's arm came up and he pushed Bellatrix's wand down. "Foolish woman!" he snarled. "We need the orb—if you smash it, the Dark Lord will be most displeased."

"I shall take it from his cold and lifeless fingers!" the witch screeched.

"Not until we have the prophecy!" Stepping slightly in front of the mad witch, Malfoy turned a scathing glare back at Harry. "You either possess true Gryffindor bravery, or you are nothing more than a stupid little boy. One does not make an enemy of Bellatrix Lestrange lightly."

"What, was she about to invite me to tea before I insulted her precious Dork Lord?" Harry asked sardonically.

Bellatrix screamed yet again, but Lucius merely glared at him with contempt. "I grow tired of this, Potter, so it will be the last time I ask. Give me the orb!"

At that moment, several members of the Order materialized behind and to the sides of the Death Eaters, all with wands at the ready and expressions of deadly intent upon their faces. Sirius stepped to Harry's side and gazed at Malfoy coldly, while the rest of the Order members ensured that each Death Eater was covered.

Harry feigned a relief, which was not in truth much of an act, before he turned to the Death Eater. "No, Mr. Malfoy, I don't think I will be handing anything over to the likes of you today."

* * *

Sirius Black could not be prouder of his godson. To be certain he had opposed Harry's plan to retrieve the sphere—in good conscience, he could not imagine acting in any other manner as, just having gained the freedom to be a part of Harry's life, he cold not imagine losing him to some harebrained scheme. He would do so again, should the situation present itself, regardless of the fact that he had ultimately given his blessing for Harry to proceed.

Still, he had to admire the lad. He was tough and resourceful, not to mention as brave as any Gryffindor Sirius had ever had the fortune to meet. But he had also added a modicum of slyness and a dram of sense to his character over the previous months—gone was the formerly impetuous and sometimes reckless youth, replaced with someone who would prove to be a formidable force in whatever he chose to pursue. The way he toyed with Malfoy and baited Bellatrix had been classic. Sirius could only wish that he had one of those video recording thingies the Muggles invented. Of course, a Pensieve memory of Bellatrix's face would be much better, as he would be able to live the moment again as the Pensieve put one directly _into_ the memory. He could not imagine ever tiring of it.

The plan thus far had been executed flawlessly. Sirius had made certain he had been seen at Hogwarts earlier that evening, even patrolling the hallways near the Slytherin common room just before curfew and making certain that some of the Death Eater children had seen him so that they could report as to his whereabouts. He had then retired to his chambers before sneaking out under a disillusionment charm and making his way to the location the Order had designated as their staging area.

From there it had been a simple matter to wait until they learned, via the judicious tracking spell Sirius had placed on Harry earlier that evening, to wait until the trio entered the Hall of Prophecy before making their way into the building and surrounding the Death Eaters. Their timing had been perfect.

The fact that the two girls had accompanied Harry did not come as a surprise in the slightest to Sirius. Dumbledore and Jean-Sebastian had both assumed that Hermione and Fleur would allow Harry to go off on his own without a second thought, but Sirius had seen something in their eyes, especially the night when Harry had first made his plan known. Still, though perhaps he should have spoken up, Sirius had remained quiet, knowing that if anyone was to protect Harry's back, the two girls were the ones he would have chosen. Now they were all here.

And now came the hard part.

As he and his comrades stepped forward, Sirius waved jauntily at the assembled Death Eaters. "Bellatrix," he greeted her with a grin. "So nice of you to drop by. My how the time flies—it seems like just yesterday when I was exchanging war stories between the bars of our prison cells."

Bellatrix was not amused. "Blood Traitor! Insolent whelp! How your mother would be disappointed in you!"

"The last time mother was happy with me was when I was five years old," Sirius jibed. "Perhaps you didn't notice, but she was rather put out that I did not swallow that tripe she spewed like the rest of you did. She was just as foul as you and your compatriots are, and likely less sane. Though come to think about it, I think you'd give her a run for her money in the madness department now."

Bellatrix screamed again, but Malfoy knocked her wand arm down when she would have attempted to curse him. Sirius smiled and nodded at the Malfoy patriarch.

"Good on you, Malfoy. Seems like someone at least has the sense to try to rein in my crazy cousin. Next time, though, I suggest you use a leash—a mad dog should not be allowed to run free, you know."

Malfoy held Bellatrix back again as by this time she was almost frothing at the mouth. "Sirius Black," Lucius said, spitting out the words as though they were foul to the taste. "It is a surprise seeing you here."

"Well, my godson does have a tendency to be somewhat impetuous." Sirius glared down at Harry, as though scolding him for putting them in this situation. "Luckily I checked on him tonight after noticing he's not been himself lately."

"Yes, fortunate for you indeed." Lucius's glare slipped to Harry and he stretched out his hand again. "Give the orb to me, Potter, and we can avoid this bit of unpleasantness."

Harry shook his head and stepped back, even as Sirius laughed in Malfoy's face. Malfoy's answer, however was provided by Mad-Eye who stood to one side. He said, in his usual blunt manner, "You don't really think we'll allow you to leave with it, do you Malfoy? Look around—we have you surrounded. I suggest if you don't want to be cut down like the dogs you are that you leave while you still can."

Lucius glanced at Moody with seeming disdain, but Sirius could see his hesitation—only a fool disregarded an Auror with Mad-Eye's reputation. Sirius looked around and caught the eyes of some of his companions—Hestia, Kinglsey, Dedalus, and the rest all looked ready for action. Sirius could only wish that Tonks and Remus were here—both were powerful casters and Remus also had the strength and quickness of a werewolf to aid him in battle.

"Of course," Sirius continued with deliberate nonchalance, "you could always simply give yourselves up and turn in that Halfblood bastard who branded you. Of course, I doubt that you are intelligent enough to do that—inbreeding plays havoc with the better traits of a person after all, such as intelligence and prudence."

As intended, several of the Death Eaters growled at Sirius and flashed angry glares at the assembled Order members. Sirius ignored them in favor of watching Malfoy—his insults were deliberately calculated to riled the man up and induce him to attack where he might otherwise have backed down. He watched as Malfoy sized the Order up and compared them with his compatriots. Sirius could almost see the wheels turning in his mind as he considered the odds.

Ultimately it appeared that the fear of returning to Voldemort empty-handed, coupled with the insults, were enough to goad him into the desired response. He hefted his wand and pointed it at Harry, a signal which caused his fellow Death Eaters to raise theirs as well.

"I will give you one last opportunity to walk from this room unscathed. Give me the orb."

"Screw you, Malfoy," was Harry's only response.

Malfoy's reply was a curse emerging from the end of his wand, which Harry nonchalantly batted away with his own shielding charm as the room erupted in chaos.

Caught as they were in a circle of Order members, the Death Eaters tried to seize the initiative and break out, but the Order members met them spell for spell. On the far side of the room he saw one of the Death Eaters—Jugson he thought—rush against Hestia while a stream of curses spewed from his wand, but the petit woman merely sidestepped and counter-attacked, catching him with a glancing blow on his non-wand arm with a cutting hex. Elsewhere, Kingsley and engaged the team of Crabbe and Goyle while several other Order members were trying to set up a crossfire and catch the Death Eaters in the middle of a deadly killing ground. Indeed, two of Malfoy's companions went down to their fire in the opening moments of the fight.

"Get behind me!" he yelled urgently at the three teens as the curses started flying. They ignored him, as he might have expected, all three of them throwing hexes and curses from their wands as though they had been battling for years.

"_Bombarda!_" Bellatrix cried, and Sirius was forced to turn his attention away from even the teens.

Blocking her attack, Sirius immediately spun on his heel and sent a combination of a cutting, bludgeoning curses and stunning hexes back at the madly cackling which. Bellatrix merely continued her insane laughter and blocked his curses, while firing several back on her own.

"Poor wittow Siwius," she taunted childishly. Her next words, however, were deadly serious and only confirmed her madness. "You should have stayed in Azkaban—the Dark Lord will feast upon your soul."

"Only if he can catch me," Sirius jibed, blocking her attacks and responding with his own.

To his side, Sirius could see the teenagers out of the corner of his eye, where they were taking on a combination of Malfoy and Dolohov, and if the sweat pouring down Malfoy's face was any indication, were doing quite well against them.

"You never did know when to quit," Bellatrix snarled at Sirius as she brought his attention back to her with a snap. He had to dodge quickly to avoid her blood boiling curse, and he responded with a leg locker. "I shall enjoy flaying the flesh from your bones." She cackled madly and switched once again to her childish voice. "I may even keep you awive wong enough to see what I wiw do wif your fwee wittow fwiends."

Sirius only replied with a bone breaker curse, which she narrowly avoided.

A stray curse from the side broke Bellatrix's concentration, and she dodged to one side, allowing Sirius a moment's respite in which to check on the teens. Harry and his friends were still holding their own, though a third Death Eater—one Sirius did not know—had joined the confrontation. He was fighting with Fleur, while Harry matched up against Dolohov, and Hermione faced off with the elder Malfoy. Using his moment of precious time, Sirius directed a wide angled sleeping charm toward the three men which shifted their focus away from the teens. Dolohov and the unnamed Death Eater managed to evade his attack easily, but while Malfoy was distracted, Hermione managed to slip a bludgeoning curse past his defenses, and the man was knocked of his feet and went down in a heap and did not rise again.

Taking stock of his situation, Sirius saw that the room was taking heavy damage from the raging battle. Several nearby tables had been smashed, depositing their contents on the floor, while one of the shelves containing time turners had been hit by a stray spell, obliterating them beyond repair. Bellatrix had been engaged by Dedalus Diggle, and though he doubted Diggle's ability to hold her back for long, she was occupied for the moment. He turned and saw Kingsley put down the last of the Crabbe/Goyle duo he was fighting with and catch his eye. Nodding to each other, the two entered the fray against the two remaining Death Eaters who were still fighting the three teens, willing them to remember the plan and take the opportunity to flee.

Some sixth sense must have alerted Dolohov to his presence, because the man quickly shifted his stance and fired off several curses at Sirius, leaving Harry be for the moment. As he moved to fully engage the Death Eater, Sirius saw the three teens slip away and being moving toward the exit to the Time Room. Concentrating fully on Dolohov, he pressed the man furiously, ensuring that he could not go after the teens and stop them from escaping.

For the next several moments, Sirius worked as a team with Kingsley, admiring the fluidity and grace which the big man employed. Although this was the first time Sirius had seen him in action, it was clear why Kingsley was so well regarded, not only in the Auror force, but also in the Order—he was a powerful and graceful fighter, his spells were cast effortlessly, and he fought with a flair rarely to be seen.

The battle ebbed and flowed over the confines of the room, short and vicious, with no quarter given or received. The Death Eaters had clearly suffered some losses—Malfoy Crabbe, Goyle, and another Death Eater not familiar to Sirius had all been taken out of the fight. But the Order had suffered losses as well, with Emmeline Vance and Bill Weasley nursing injuries and out of the fight.

Sirius had just put Macnair down with a well-aimed Reductor curse, when he heard the insane laughter of his cousin very close behind him. He spun around to see her eyeing him with her wand pointed at him, when the fateful words emerged from her lips. "_Avada Kedavra!_"

Twisting on his heel, Sirius contorted his body desperately to avoid the speeding curse. He managed to twist himself around and, losing his balance, hit the floor as the curse sped past his chin. He could almost fancy he felt a blazing hot furnace of heat emanating from the spell as it passed him by. With grunt Sirius hit the floor, immediately scrambling to move once again as he knew Bellatrix would not allow him a respite in which to recover himself.

It was only when he was crouching that he noticed that someone else had not been nearly as lucky as he had been in avoiding the curse. There was body lying on the floor in front of him, eyes open wide, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. It was Dedalus Diggle.

Snarling, Sirius pushed himself to his feet and engaged Bellatrix, spells issuing furiously from his wand, wanting to make her pay for all the suffering and misery she had caused over the course of her life. He attacked her with an entrail-expelling curse, followed it up with several stunners, a blasting curse and a blood boiling curse, steadily forcing her back, not caring that the curses he were using could be considered borderline dark at the very least. The gloves had come off.

For an instant, the insanity seemed to retreat as she furiously fought back, and a hint of fear appeared on her face. But then out of the corner of his eye, Sirius saw a curse heading his way, and he ducked to the side and responded by attacking Thaddeus Nott, who had been trying to sneak up on him, completely losing track of Bellatrix in the process. The mad witch immediately spun on her heel and sprinted from the room, laughing all the time.

Sirius fought furiously, trying to turn back Nott's attack so that he could pursue Bellatrix and protect Harry, but the man stubbornly fought back, delaying Sirius for a few more precious moments. By the time he was able to subdue him, a few more precious moments had been lost, and Bellatrix was long gone from the room.

A quick glance around showed that the fight had largely gone their way—most of the Death Eaters were now either incapacitated or strung up, with only Dolohov and Rookwood still trying to fight their way from the room against Hestia, Mad-Eye and Kingsley. Aside from the unfortunate Dedalus, and Bill and Emmeline, Minerva and Arthur Weasley were also nursing injuries.

"Go after Potter!" Moody yelled as he attacked Dolohov with a stream of curses issuing from his wand. "Voldemort must be somewhere near and we don't want Potter running into him alone."

Nodding, Sirius sprinted toward the door. Of course, he also knew that Dumbledore was nearby, as was Jean-Sebastian, but Bellatrix escaping the room had not been part of the plan. Knowing her she would end up messing everything up!

* * *

The moment Sirius distracted the Death Eaters they were fighting, Harry grabbed Fleur's hand and, dragging her along behind, propelled Hermione away from the struggling combatants. The battle still raged on behind them with curses flying everywhere, and the sounds of shouted spells screams of pain, and the debris from ruined clocks and smashed time turners filled the air.

Risking a quick glance behind as he neared the door, Harry could see that no one was pursuing them—if any of the enemy had noticed their retreat, they were too busy with the Order members to chase after them. So far, everything was going to plan.

They rushed through the door and closed it behind them, realizing their mistake in an instant when the doors started spinning around them. Harry had to grasp onto his two companions to keep his balance, as the rotating room was very disorienting and threatened to upset his balance. The girls appeared to have the same problem.

When finally the room stopped spinning, Harry led the girls to the door with the yellow stain on it, incidentally noting that it was in the approximate position as the door they had entered through had been—though to be honest he could not be certain given the dizziness the room had caused—and stepped through it into the short black corridor. They rushed to the panel and pressed the button, summoning the lift. It was a tense few moments waiting for the lift to respond, as they watchfully covered the door, half afraid that a Death Eater would burst through and try to prevent their escape.

At length the lift arrived and they stepped in and pressed the button for the atrium. Before the doors could close, however, the door at the far end of the hall opened, and in stepped a cackling Bellatrix. Seeing them, she began sprinting toward them as the doors began to close, seeming to Harry to be agonizingly slow.

As she was running, Harry saw her lift her wand as though to cast, and without thought, Harry raised his own and through the still open door, Harry cried, "_Reducto!_" The spell sped out through the doorway and struck the tiles in front of Bellatrix's feet, sending a spray of jagged tiles and stone into the air. A particularly large piece flew up and hit Bellatrix on the leg, causing her to stumble and go down in a heap.

Finally the door closed with a soft thud, but not before Harry saw Bellatrix scrambling to her feet, expression of poisonous hatred etched upon her face. Her countenance in that instant was indelibly imprinted in Harry's memory, and he was hit by the idle thought that if she had not been mad and completely evil, and had she not suffered the ravages of more than ten years in Azkaban, Bellatrix Lestrange would be an uncommonly beautiful woman.

A sudden blast and a thunderclap interrupted Harry's sudden introspection and he glanced around wildly for the source of the disturbance.

"I… I think Bellatrix just hit the doors with a Reductor Curse," Hermione said shakily.

"Get up against the wall," Harry commanded immediately, moving out until he was hugging the wall himself. "I wouldn't put it past her to Reducto the bottom of the lift."

Hermione and Fleur complied with his directive, though Fleur said, "Surely she wouldn't. If she managed to destroy the lift, she would destroy the orb too."

"Yeah, well she's not exactly the sanest person we've ever met, is she?" Hermione replied, looking down at the floor warily.

"Exactly," Harry said.

It was a tense few moments as they rose higher in the Ministry building, but though Harry almost expected the floor to explode in a mass of wood and metal, nothing happened, and after a few moments they were able to relax in the knowledge that Bellatrix had not completely lost control of her faculties.

"She'll be chasing us," Hermione said unnecessarily.

"I seriously doubt that Bellatrix will be the worst of our worries," Harry replied.

After a few moments the lift stopped at the atrium and the three teens exited, sprinting past the still flowing fountain and towards the exit. They had almost arrived at the position where the phone booth may be summoned when Voldemort arrived in a swirl of shadow and smoke.

"Harry Potter," he greeted, almost as though they were meeting for tea. "I must commend you on your resourcefulness. I would not have expected you to be able to escape from a full dozen of my most powerful servants."

Harry snorted with disdain. "If those are your most powerful servants, I would hate to think what the bottom feeders are like."

Voldemort merely smiled. "Spoken like a true Gryffindor. I must admit that I am surprised that Dumbledore kept you in the dark all these years. I would have expected that he would want his attack dog trained and pointed at his mortal foe. How you must now despise him for it."

"I may not agree with Dumbledore's reasons," Harry responded evenly, "but I understand them."

"Perhaps you should have been in Hufflepuff then," Voldemort observed pleasantly. "Your blind devotion to that old relic of a man would almost be sad if it was not so pathetic."

"And loyalty is a trait that you have no comprehension of, isn't it Tom?" Harry asked. "At the end of the day, you are out for yourself and nothing more."

"Where did you hear that name?" Voldemort demanded. Then his face smoothed and he smiled yet again. "Ah, Dumbledore told you. I suppose I shouldn't wonder at it—he does need to toss you a bone here and there."

"You told me that little tidbit yourself," Harry replied with a laugh. "Or at least, a shade, or an echo, as you termed it, did. It was just after I killed the basilisk, and just before I destroyed it."

If Harry had not been looking for it, he might have missed the sudden shade in Voldemort's eyes at the mention of the destruction of the diary. It appeared only for an instant before the man was his affable self again, apparently dismissing any suggestion that Harry might know of his great secret.

"Indeed." Voldemort nodded sagely. "Your intrepid adventures of your second year. A word of advice, Potter—you may wish to curb your predilection for throwing yourself into the fray. You will eventually bite off more than you can chew. In fact," he said with a chuckle, "I believe you may find yourself in exactly that situation right now.

"But enough of this," he said with a congenial smile, as though they were best of friends, "I will now relieve you of that little bauble you carry."

A flick of his wrist and he attempted to summon the orb. But Harry was ready for him. He blocked the spell with his wand, which he still held in his hand. But though he would have expected Voldemort to be angry at being thwarted, he just smiled at Harry yet again.

"You are not going to make this difficult now, are you Harry?"

"When have I ever made anything easy for you?"

"I suppose not." Voldemort eyed Harry and then his eyes flickered to Fleur and Hermione in succession. "You really should consider giving me that prophecy, Harry. Miss Delacour is so beautiful—it would be a shame to mar her ethereal looks. And with her intelligence, you would not wish Miss Granger to end up the same as Mr. Longbottom's unfortunate parents now, would you?"

Though Harry was curious about the reference to Neville's parents, he acted like he considered the matter for a moment, before he pulled the orb from his pocket and gestured with it. "What's so important about this prophecy? For all you know it might merely predict what I am going to eat for breakfast tomorrow."

"Oh, I assure you, it's much more valuable than that," Voldemort said with a predatory smile, no doubt assured that he would soon have the orb in his possession. "Prophecy guides us and directs us. Nations and kingdoms can be built with the use of such knowledge. That particular prophecy provides the means by which I can sweep all opposition away and plan properly for my future and the future of the world."

Harry thought he was being more than a little melodramatic, particularly when he did not actually know what the prophecy said.

"My, aren't we ambitious," Harry drawled, scorn literally dripping from his voice.

"Ah, but weren't you aware?" Voldemort asked with a smirk. "I was sorted into Slytherin when I attended Hogwarts. Ambition comes with the territory.

"Now, give me the orb!"

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw another lift door open and watched as Bellatrix entered the atrium. Her expression of murderous fury was instantly replaced by one of smug satisfaction as she moved to take her place like a dog at her master's heels.

"Welcome, Bellatrix," Voldemort said as his eyes darted to her. He turned his attention back to Harry and said in a pleasant tone, "Now what will it be, Harry? Will you give me the orb willingly, or must I… persuade you?"

Harry paused as if thinking about it, before he smirked at Voldemort. "No, Tommy, I don't think I will give this to you."

With a quick motion, Harry turned his hand over and hurled the orb at the floor, watching in satisfaction as the orb smashed into tiny pieces of glass. The swirling mist which had been contained within eddied for a few moments in the stillness of the atrium air and then evaporated like mist on a bright and sunny morning.

A shocked Voldemort wrenched his gaze from the shattered pieces of glass and he peered at Harry with equal parts shock and anger. "I thought you wished to know the contents of the prophecy, Harry."

"Better that I remain ignorant than to allow you learn of it," Harry spat. "And besides, if I ask really nicely, maybe I can get Dumbledore to tell me what it said. I doubt he'll ever extend such a courtesy to you."

"If you think that, you are more foolish than I had imagined," Voldemort replied. "But though I would have expected you to fight to the last to retain possession of it, you have proved to be harder to predict than I had imagined. You will now have to pay the price for your thoughtlessness."

With a feral smile, Voldemort gestured toward the girls on either side of Harry and said, "Which one of your little friends will pay the price for your failure first, Harry? The Mudblood or the beast?"

"Do your worst, Tommy," Harry spat as he assumed a fighting stance.

"You always were too hasty, Tom," a voice rang out over the atrium.

Voldemort turned his head toward this new intrusion. Dumbledore and Jean-Sebastian were approaching them from the opposite direction of the lifts.

"You didn't think I would allow you harm Mr. Potter and his friends, did you?"

"Dumbledore," Voldemort spat. "How like you to always turn up at the most inopportune times."

"And how like you to overreach yourself," Dumbledore responded.

Voldemort snarled and raised his wand. "We shall see who has overreached."

And with that, the battle was joined. With Dumbledore taking up position between Harry and his friends on the one side, and Voldemort on the other, Harry was immediately cut off from the dark lord. And what he saw next was equal parts amazing and unbelievable as for the first time, the two titans squared off against one another.

Sheets of fire swept through the room, bolts of lightning struck down, waves of water splashed against unseen barriers and wild tornados and gusts of wind buffeted them, threatening to pitch them off their feet. The two combatants were almost a blur of motion as spells were cast back and forth, shields erected, dangerous beasts conjured and transfigured from the rubble which was rapidly accumulating from the ferocity of the battle. Harry saw at one point, a wall of water summoned forth by Dumbledore, its wave crested by what appeared to be a stampede of wild horses which galloped in the froth to consume the dark lord. Voldemort sidestepped and conjured a wall of rock which buckled and collapsed at the pressure of the water, but broke the momentum of the raging flood. At another point, Voldemort raised his wand to the ceiling and conjured a dizzying array of lightning bolts which struck with tremendous force. Dumbledore merely extended his wand above his head, and the lightning was diverted to strike with tremendous force all around the Headmaster.

Awed with what he was seeing, Harry could only stare in amazement at the spectacle. It was at that moment that the reality of the situation made itself known to him, though he had always understood that Voldemort held a sizeable edge against him in terms of knowledge, skill, and experience. For all his posturing when facing off with the dark lord, he was now well aware of the fact that Voldemort would literally have mopped the floor with him had Dumbledore not intervened. It was a humbling, and somewhat frightening realization, knowing as he did that it would ultimately come down to him and Voldemort. It also filled him with a fierce determination to even the odds—the next time he met Voldemort he would not be so seriously outclassed.

So fixed was he on the titanic struggle in front of him, that he almost missed the danger which was creeping around the side.

"_Bombarda!_" a shrill voice rang out from off to his left, and Harry instinctively shielded, noting as he did so that three other shields sprung into existence at the same time.

"You will pay for what you have done!" Bellatrix screamed as she cast curse after curse at him.

However, it wasn't truly a fair fight as, although Bellatrix was a skilled and ferocious fighter, even she was no match for four to one odds. Harry fought back at her, putting all of the hatred he felt for the misery she had caused in the service of her master, forcing her, with the help of the others, to the defensive. Soon, she was struggling just to keep their curses at bay, even as they came ever closer to putting her down. Then Sirius entered the room from one of the lifts and, seeing Bellatrix in front of him fighting against Harry and his companions, put her out of the fight with a bludgeoning curse, which Harry was certain broke some bones, if her screams of pain were any indication.

There was suddenly a commotion at the far end of the hall as Aurors began streaming into the room through the various entrances, and in their midst entered the flummoxed form of the ineffectual Minister Fudge. The foolish man gaped at the spectacle of Dumbledore's duel with Voldemort, and though Harry could not hear him over the din, he could clearly see the Minister mouthing the words, "I can't believe it—he _is_ back!"

The movement from the end of the room drew dark lord's attention, and he paled as he saw the mass of people flooding into the room which. Sudden understanding seemed to come to him—not only was his return, which had been denied by a stubborn Ministry, now beyond denial, but with the array of wands now facing him, he was seriously in danger of being captured, and his quest for power over before it had truly begun.

With a scream of primal rage, Voldemort broke off his duel with Dumbledore and peered wildly around the room. As he did, he appeared to lose control of himself, and he did what no one would have predicted or expected.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" he screamed.

The brilliant green light which emanated from his wand sped across the room and before anyone had a chance to move, struck the Minister in the middle of his forehead. The man was flung from his feet, and he crashed into the floor and lay unmoving, his open eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

Silence descended on the room, as the assembled wizards and witches watched in shock. It was of course then that Voldemort made his move.

He was near the Floo already, and with a few swiftly taken steps he was situated directly in front if them, Bellatrix having scrabbled to the safety of the Floo only moments before. Though everything around him felt like it was encased in thick molasses, Harry was the first to move in response to Voldemort's attempted escape, as he took a few steps himself, in an attempt to cut off his escape.

That was why he was completely unprepared when Voldemort, on the verge of his escape through the Floo, suddenly looked directly at him and stopped Harry dead in his tracks. He felt an immeasurable weight suddenly attempting to force its way into his mind and almost as though he were a marionette bereft of its strings he flopped to the floor, agony lancing through his mind, both from the physical reaction of his scar and the mental pain of a sudden intrusion into his mind.

What followed was perhaps the most painful experience of Harry's life and, though he was later told that Voldemort only held his gaze for a matter of seconds, it seemed like a lifetime. Nothing could have prepared him for the malevolent intrusion into his mind which the dark lord forced upon him—the tests Dumbledore had done on his mindscape had been gentle probes, not this harsh avalanche of thought pouring into his mind. Harry immediately and instinctively understood that Voldemort had no inkling of his knowing the text of the prophecy. Since he had failed in his attempt to gain the prophecy and had had no chance since to simply kill him in his clash with Dumbledore, he was now attempting to shred Harry's mind as a final attempt to do away with his foe.

Though he was writhing in agony—Harry could dimly sense the panic stricken attempts of his lady loves to comfort and help him—Harry pulled on the lessons which Fleur had so painstakingly taught him, and with one massive effort, pushed at Voldemort's presence, attempting desperately to evict him from his mind.

All at once, the pressure lessened and Harry opened his eyes. The vision which swam in his lidded eyes was one of Voldemort's shock as he staggered back, in a physical reaction to Harry's psychic defense. On either side, Hermione and Fleur were hold him and crying over him, while in the background Dumbledore hurried toward them and the rest of the room recovered and began to move.

An expression of pure loathing and rage appeared on Voldemort's face and he brought his wand forward. But in that instant the voices of those in the hall rose and a battery of spells jumped from wands, speeding toward the enraged man. Having no choice, Voldemort snarled and stepped back into the Floo, disappearing into the fire instants before the spells impacted against the wall behind the place he had been standing only moments before.

Thankfully, with the danger now passed, Harry allowed his control to wane and he mercifully slipped into the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness.

_Next: The aftermath of the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, and Remus and Tonks have an unexpected encounter..._

* * *

**A/N:**

1. As always, a warm thanks to everyone who continues to read and especially to those who drop a review. You will never hear me asking for reviews, but I appreciate them all the same.

2. There you have it; we've passed the battle of the Mysteries and Sirius survived it, while Fudge did not. Fudge being taken down by Voldemort was one of the earliest concept ideas I had for this story, and I think it came off pretty well for the most part. Now, they will just have to deal with the fallout...

3. For any of you writers, have you ever written something that made you almost want to vomit when you read it after? The second section, and particularly the battle, was like that for me. I was struggling when writing it and finally decided that I had to just get it down and improve upon it later, but my first draft was one of the most unbelievably horrible things I have ever written. It went through multiple drafts, before I finally had to say enough was enough. I'm still not completely happy with it, but I think it will suffice.

4. Finally, though I normally don't like putting affected speech into anything I write (think Hagrid or Fleur's accents, which make it harder to read and distract from the enjoyment of the story) I decided that Bellatrix's baby talk just can't be done any other way. I'm trying to make her even crazier than she was in the books, because I think that she's certifiable coconut college material. Hopefully it came off well.


	43. Chapter 42 – For Every Action

**Previously: **Harry discovers that Fleur and Hermione have followed him to the Ministry. They locate the prophecy and are confronted by Death Eaters once they reenter the Time Room. When the Order members surround the Death Eaters, a firefight ensues and the trio escape during the fighting. They are confronted by Voldemort in the atrium. Voldemort battles with Dumbledore and kills Minister Fudge in a fit of rage when he realizes he has been discovered. He directs a legilimency attack at Harry but is forced to flee when Harry forces him from his mind.

* * *

**Chapter 42 – For Every Action**

When Harry opened his eyes, the very first thing he noticed was the fact that the atrium was still in some chaos. Aurors swarmed the area, some scouring the atrium looking for clues, some investigating the Floo, presumably to try to determine to where Voldemort disappeared, and while others came and went, though other doors, the lifts, or other places unknown. It all looked to be orderly, however, a testament to the efficiency of whoever was organizing the investigation which was now clearly under way.

The second thing he noticed was just how much his head throbbed, as though every pixie from his second year had taken up residence in his head, pounding away with tiny hammers. Groaning, Harry sat up, wincing at the increased pounding in his skull as the blood rushed to his head. He sat there for a moment, allowing the pounding to subside and the pain to lessen, feeling grateful for the tender hands which rubbed his back and held him close. When he could finally open his eyes, Harry looked to either side and caught the eyes of both girls, smiling to indicate that he was on the mend.

Fleur and Hermione helped him stand and Harry was better able to take stock of the situation. Dumbledore stood some distance away speaking with a very irate-looking Amelia Bones, while Jean-Sebastian stood to the side interjecting a few comments here and there. In another direction, Sirius was speaking with several Aurors, giving a statement, Harry thought.

As for the room itself, well it was obvious that the atrium had suffered heavy damage as a result of the evening's events. Tiles had been shattered, whipped up by the struggle between Dumbledore and Voldemort, and while the fountain still stood, various parts of it had been smashed, while others melted into puddles of golden slag. The desk which stood at the end of the atrium, where the guards who checked visitors in to the Ministry sat, had been shattered into a pile of kindling. And perhaps most starkly, a black sheet covered what Harry presumed to be the body of the former Minister.

Sighing, Harry glanced at his two companions, receiving commiserating looks in response. Their activity tonight had ultimately been successful, but they had paid a steep price for it. What would happen now? The Minister had died by Voldemort's hand it was true, but the Minister had only been there that evening due to their actions. Would they now in some manner be held accountable for his death?

As Harry stood contemplating what had happened, Dumbledore strode up. Gone was the typically grandfatherly air, which was replaced by the forbidding Headmaster, or perhaps even more accurately, the Chief Warlock, one of the leaders of the nation, and wizard renowned the world over. A glance over his shoulder showed that Jean-Sebastian was now engaged in animated conversation with Madam Bones. Whether he was distracting her to give Dumbledore a few moments to speak with Harry in private, he was not certain, but he rather suspected that that might be the case.

"Harry," Dumbledore spoke up without preamble, "remember to stick to your story. Voldemort undoubtedly has eyes and ears in the Ministry and we cannot have the truth of the prophecy get out. We must also protect Professor Snape's cover, so the true sequence of events must not be revealed."

"But the Minister died tonight," replied Harry somewhat despondently.

An expression of compassion fell over Dumbledore's countenance. "It is indeed unfortunate. Minister Fudge was not particularly a good man, nor was he a particularly honest one. Still, the loss of a human life is not a trifle."

"It was _my_ plan that got him killed. I'm to blame."

"You are _not_ to blame," Fleur hissed. "No one could have predicted how Voldemort would react."

"You are correct, Miss Delacour," Dumbledore stated. "I would never have guessed that Voldemort would have lost his composure in such a manner. However, if you look at the matter from Voldemort's perspective, it is clear that he had relatively little use left for the Minister. Once his return was betrayed, Voldemort knew that the Minister's insistence that he had not returned would mean that he would be ousted as soon as may be. Though I cannot state for certain and suspect that Voldemort acted in an impulsive fit of rage, I believe that is how he will eventually view this matter."

Harry did not respond. He was feeling far too despondent to do anything other than accept Dumbledore's words as the truth. Unfortunately, it did not dull the edge of guilt which was threatening to engulf him..

Dumbledore eyed Harry for a few moments before he spoke again in a gentle tone. "Harry, the unfortunate fact is that we are now engulfed in a war, and it is not one of our own choosing. Sometimes there are things which must be done, and they can be distasteful, but they still must be done. As we have been granted knowledge to help make a difference, we must often be the ones to take those actions.

"However, events invariably do not proceed in the fashion we expect, and sometime, our actions can have consequences which we did not intend or predict. This is one such situation. I understand what you are feeling—trust me, I know the feeling intimately. When there are unexpected consequences for our actions, all we can do is admit our culpability and press on."

"I understand, Sir," said Harry after taking a long shuddering breath. And he did understand intellectually. The sense of blame would still take some time to dissipate.

"Good. Now, I believe there are some questions which must be answered tonight. As much as possible I would like to keep the truth to as few as possible, for your own protection and for the protection of the knowledge which give us an advantage. Answer any questions you are asked as vaguely as possible."

Harry glanced about, taking in the still busy room, and specifically Madam Bones who was still carrying on a conversation with Jean-Sebastian. "I'm betting some of the people here will want more than for me to deflect their questions."

"Undoubtedly you are correct," Dumbledore agreed. "It is unfortunate that the press arrived as quickly as they did, as it will be impossible to keep the existence of the prophecy a secret. Madam Bones specifically will need to be told the exact text of the prophecy. Other than her, however, it is imperative that it still remains a secret. I will intervene with her and with any luck we can move the discussion to a more private location."

As Dumbledore finished speaking, Madam Bones approached and, looking over Harry and the two girls, grimaced with some exasperation. "Mr. Potter. It appears as though you have had a very busy evening indeed."

At the lifts, a commotion began as the combatants from the Time Room began to arrive in the atrium. Most of the Order members arrived on their own strength, though several appeared have some injury or another; Bill Weasley, in particular, sported a deep gash on one of his legs which would require some attention at St. Mungos. It was another figure covered with a black sheet, levitated between two Aurors which caught Harry's attention. Apparently someone else had paid the ultimate price carrying out a plan which had been his conception.

"Yes, very busy indeed," Madam Bones continued in a very soft voice. She then turned to Dumbledore. "The Death Eaters are being incarcerated in our Auror holding cells in the DMLE—I believe that this will be a much more secure location until we can arrange for their trials. Some of them have already been rescued from Azkaban once."

"A prudent plan," Dumbledore approved.

Madam Bones gazed at Dumbledore for some moments. "Let us finish with the young ones and get them back to Hogwarts. Then we can discuss the disposition of the Death Eaters."

The interrogation was conducted by the Head Auror, Rufus Scrimgeour, and because the Auror department was currently inundated with the Death Eaters and those seeing to their incarceration, they adjourned to some offices in the administrative section of the Ministry for the meeting. Privacy charms were set up to avoid anyone overhearing—which Harry was grateful for, considering the fact that Rita Skeeter was still around—and Harry and the girls were required to relate the events which had led to their arrival at the Ministry.

It was a long hour for Harry and he found himself wishing several times that it was over. An Auror appeared very soon after with a pain relief potion which at least relieved the symptoms of Voldemort's attempted Legilimency attack, but still, as the night was wearing on, Harry felt himself become sluggish as the lack of sleep began to catch up on him.

He stubbornly stuck to the story that they had prepared—he had found out of the existence of a prophecy concerning him and had come to the Ministry, believing that it was his right to have it. He clearly noted that he had disobeyed his guardians in the process, claiming somewhat petulantly that he was no child and had a right to know. He insisted that he had not counted on Voldemort's interest in or knowledge of the prophecy, and had been surprised by the Death Eaters' appearance. Subsequent inquiries into the existence of the prophecy, however, led to nothing, as Harry informed them that he had smashed the orb rather than see Voldemort gain it. Of course, the general destruction in the atrium made identifying the remaining shards problematic at best.

Madam Bones finally sighed and indicated to her Aurors that she was satisfied with Harry's answers, and they were left alone for a few moments. "I suppose we will never know the contents of the prophecy now," she said after a few moments. "We can approach the Unspeakables and ask the keeper if he remembers anything, but the chances are not good."

"I believe the keeper specifically is protected by oaths which prevent him from revealing the contents of any of the prophecies," Dumbledore rumbled in response. Harry noted that the Headmaster did not contradict Madam Bones' assumption that the prophecy was lost forever. "However, he may be able to reveal it to Mr. Potter, as he is mentioned in the prophecy. Sadly, since, from Harry's description, it was likely made before his birth, which was some time ago. It is unlikely that the keeper would remember anything since it has been so long."

Madam Bones turned and gazed expectantly at Dumbledore. "Why would You-Know-Who become interested in this now of all times? And was this why Mr. Potter and his parents were targeted?"

"I am afraid that only Voldemort can answer that question, Madam Bones," was Dumbledore's only reply. "I believe that now the questioning is over, that Mr. Potter and his friends need to return to Hogwarts. You and I should meet later to discuss this matter in greater depth. Perhaps we can discover more of this mystery."

Nodding, Madam Bones stood and smiled at Harry. "I believe that you have caused a certain amount of excitement tonight, Mr. Potter. However, you have done us a service by proving the return of You-Know-Who."

Thanking her, Harry turned away and, in the company of Sirius, made his way toward the Floo. Along the way, of course, he was accosted by a gaggle of reporters who had arrived at the scene almost immediately, the ever-present and always poisonous Rita Skeeter at the forefront. A scowl at the woman prevented her from saying anything, no doubt a reminder of what had happened at the end of the tournament the previous year, but the other reporters had no such qualms. With the assistance of a few Aurors, however, along with the interference of Director Bones and Sirius, Harry was able to make his way to the Floo, and soon they were in the Headmaster's office.

"You did well tonight, Harry," Sirius said with a hug for the tired teen.

Harry gave him a wan smile and thanked him for his help, to which the Marauder grinned. "I'm always here for you, Harry. You know that. Now get back to Gryffindor tower and get yourself some sleep. Dumbledore should be back by the morning. I'll tell you all about what happened after we left as soon as I hear it from him."

Nodding, Harry took the hands of both girls—again eliciting a grin from his irrepressible godfather—and walked from the Headmaster's office.

None of them spoke much on their way back to the tower, and to Harry the girls appeared to be as tired as he was. When they had finally made it to the common room, they paused at the stairs which led up to the dorms, and Harry kissed each of them good night.

"I'm glad you were both there tonight," he said quietly. Then he directed a mock glare at them. "But don't think I've forgotten about the conversation we need to have."

"You're right, Harry," Hermione replied twining her fingers in his. "We do need to speak."

"But we can do that tomorrow," said Fleur. "For now, let's see if we can get a little sleep tonight. Tomorrow will likely be… interesting."

Groaning, Harry nodded his head and, giving each of the girls another quick kiss, he trudged his way up the stairs. It was nearly five in the morning, and his body was crying out for rest. He knew he would need all he could get given the increased attention he was certain to receive in the coming days.

* * *

"You tell me this now?" Amelia Bones said with a growl.

Albus said nothing in response, contenting himself with sitting back in his chair and returning her glare evenly. Amelia was notorious for being slow to anger, but when her anger was unleashed, it burned with the force of a tempest. He had known coming into this meeting that she would react this way—but there had been little help for it. It had come to the point that she needed to know, especially if his thoughts regarding her future were to come to fruition.

"Why was I not informed before?" she demanded. "And what was that dog and pony show you engineered out there tonight?"

"The matter of why you were not informed is simple," Dumbledore responded. "At the time you did not _need_ to know and as such, we did not inform you."

Amelia snorted. "Albus, I am responsible for the entire Ministry's efforts against Voldemort. This is not a simple matter of a prophecy—it predicts the one who will be instrumental in his downfall!"

"It does not predict Harry will win," Dumbledore quietly responded.

Throwing her hands up in exasperation, Amelia glared at him even more fiercely. "I am able to interpret the prophecy just as you are, Albus. It is clear that Mr. Potter will have some part to play before this is done, and I needed to know, as this information changes everything."

"Be that as it may, I informed Harry's guardians and, more recently, Harry himself, but as you are not specifically connected to him, we felt that the secret could be better protected if fewer people were aware of it. We could not risk Voldemort obtaining the entire text, nor could we risk Fudge learning of it. If he had, Malfoy would have known within the hour, and even had Fudge somehow _not informed_ the man we both know to have been paying him off, how do you think he would have reacted? I cannot even begin to imagine how difficult Harry's life would have become with the Ministry setting him up as a figurehead against Voldemort. It will be bad enough now without the public being aware of what the prophecy actually says."

Amelia sat back and regarded him, an underlying glimpse of anger still visible upon her countenance. "If Harry already knew of the prophecy, and knew what it contained, then I suppose that tonight was planned? For what purpose, Albus? Two people lost their lives tonight—one a combatant who was associated with your group, and the other the bloody Minister for Magic himself! Was _his_ death part of the plan?"

"Of course it was not," Albus shot back with some indignation. "I certainly did not see eye to eye with Minister Fudge and it's no secret that I did not consider him fit to lead us against Voldemort, but the intention was not to have the Minister slain. It was to force him to acknowledge Voldemort's return, and to help us remove him in favor of someone more suited to stand against the darkness."

"You do realize that I could have you all put in chains, Albus," Amelia snarled. "Your actions led to the death of the Minister!"

"Do not be foolish, Amelia!" Dumbledore snapped, just about having had enough of her accusations. "Members of the press were here tonight and word of a prophecy is now out. How do you think they will react to that bit of news, now that Voldemort's return is acknowledged as a matter of fact? Mr. Potter's fame will rise by leaps and bounds. I do not doubt that by morning he will be hailed as the savior of our entire society."

Pulling off her spectacle, Amelia rubbed her eyes, exhaustion visible in her countenance and body language. If Albus was any judge of the matter, he would say that her anger had all but burnt itself out.

"This evening had unintended consequences, Amelia," Albus continued in a more moderate tone of voice. "No one could have predicted that Voldemort would respond in such a manner—indeed, I have never before witnessed him lose control of himself such as he did tonight.

"The fact of the matter is that we conducted an operation tonight in a time of war, and do not ever forget the fact that whether the Ministry has admitted the fact, we _are at war!_ Merlin as my witness, I would save everyone so that there would be _no deaths_ if I could manage it, but death is a part of war, whether we intend them, as we attack an enemy combatant, or if the dead are simply innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. Those deaths must rest upon our shoulders and consciences, but we must make certain their sacrifices ultimately result in our victory. Hear me, Amelia—if Voldemort controlled Britain, he would not stop here. His canker would spread and, if not stopped, would engulf the entire world, ushering in a dark age the likes of which has never been seen upon this world. We _must_ prevail!"

Amelia watched him as he made his impassioned plea without emotion, and as he concluded his speech, he wondered for a moment if she would continue on her line of attacks. She could be a stubborn woman, especially when she thought herself to be right.

"I don't like it, Albus," she finally responded, "but I can understand why you acted in the manner you did. I _do not_ like the consequences of those actions, however. Minister Fudge needed to be replaced, it is true, but it would have been better had he been tried for his corruption and made to pay his debt in a manner which was fitting the crime, not killed by a madman during an 'operation' as you put it."

Albus inclined his head; he agreed with every word she spoke, to be certain. In fact, Albus had been hoping that once Voldemort was revealed, he could begin an investigation into the Minister, exposing his corruption and removing him from the Minister's seat. A public trial which revealed his deeds, as well as the harm the man had caused by accepting Lucius Malfoy's bribes would very likely turn public opinion such that they would easily elect an Minister on the platform of needing to deal with the threat of Voldemort. The loss of life was always regrettable, even when it was necessary in the case of an enemy who would not lay down his arms. It was doubly unacceptable when the man had been essentially a bystander, and one who needed to face the consequences of his own actions.

"Be that as it may," Amelia continued, "you are completely correct about the consequences of Mr. Potter's actions, and the likely public reaction to the sensational stories I am certain the Daily Prophet and other publications are most likely preparing even as we speak. I just hope that the boy understands what he has gotten himself into."

"I'm certain he can handle it," Dumbledore replied softly. "He dealt with the publicity during the tournament last year."

"I doubt that will hold a candle to what he will be facing now, Albus."

Albus sighed. "Unfortunately, I can only suppose you are correct."

"Very well," Amelia stated. "But if we are to move forward, then I must insist that you share everything with me—movements and activities of your Order, any more adventures Mr. Potter finds himself embroiled in, and anything which may be of use in the defeat of You-Know-Who."

When Albus gave her a tight nod, Amelia raised an eyebrow. "In light of that, is there anything else you would like to share with me at this time?"

Albus hesitated. "There is something else, but I cannot be explicit because it is not my information to impart." When Amelia bristled, Albus raised his hand in a placatory gesture. "I assure you, Amelia, that I will speak with Harry and obtain his permission to inform you. There are certain tasks which must be accomplished before Voldemort can finally be defeated, but some of it directly affects Harry. I believe that you should know and I will tell you as soon as I can."

At that moment a knock sounded on the office door, to which Amelia responded by calling out a terse, "Enter!"

The door opened and the Head Auror, Rufus Scrimgeour entered the room. "Madam Director. Chief Warlock."

Amelia motioned the man to a chair, and Dumbledore turned to greet the man, appreciative of the fact that the tenseness of the atmosphere had been dispelled with his arrival.

"The preliminary questioning of the captured Death Eaters has been completed."

"And?" Amelia prompted. "What did they have to say?"

"In a word: nothing. To a man they have refused to cooperate."

"Now that was not difficult to predict, was it?" Amelia muttered.

"Indeed," Albus interjected.

Amelia turned back to Rufus. "Suggestions?"

"I think we should use Veritaserum," the Head Auror responded. "Some of these men were escapees from Azkaban, so their return is not in question. But most of the rest of them claimed the Imperius during the last war, as you well know. This is our chance to finally tie them to the crimes they have undoubtedly committed."

Nodding, Amelia turned her turned to Albus. "Can you arrange to have the use of Veritaserum released by the Wizengamot?"

"I'm certain I can," Albus responded. "But we must be certain to emphasize the necessity of discovering what they were up to. I believe we will lose support for the measure if certain members of the Wizengamot suspect that we are attempting to delve so far back into the past."

"It should be of no consequence," Madam Bones replied coldly. "I suspect that they have committed many incriminating acts at present which will give us more than an excuse to begin digging into their pasts."

Amelia had never truly gotten past the murder of her brother and most of his family during the last war. Only Susan had survived, and even then it had been a near thing. This was one of the reasons she was well-suited to take a lead role in prosecuting the war against the Death Eaters. She was driven to succeed and possessed a healthy hatred for anyone who followed Voldemort, but was not of mind to pursue vendettas or break the law in trying to end Voldemort's insurgence.

"In that case, I will ensure our prisoners are secure until we are ready," Scrimgeour before he stood and left the office.

Amelia peered at him for a few moments before she again spoke. "Now what were we speaking of?"

"I believe that we need to move past that to other matters," Albus replied in a tone which brooked no disagreement. "There is still the matter of a replacement for Minister Fudge. With Voldemort's return now being out in the open, any delay in naming a successor could leave an opening for Voldemort's supporters to potentially push a candidate through. Perhaps we should have a few others join us."

She appeared as though she would prefer to belabor the point further, but Amelia said nothing else. She simply waved her hand in acquiescence. It was twenty minutes before they were all gathered together in her office. In addition to Albus and Amelia, Sirius had returned from Hogwarts, and they had been joined by Arthur Weasley, Amos Diggory, Augusta Longbottom, Alastor Moody, all good and sturdy members of the light, and political allies of the Potters for centuries. In addition, Jean-Sebastian also joined them at Albus's insistence, not only due to his position as representative of the French government, but also as one of Harry's guardians. When they had all settled into their chairs, Albus took the initiative, knowing that time was short and they needed to come to a consensus.

"Thank you all for joining us. I believe that we must begin to plan immediately for the election of the new Minister."

Several of those in the office started at Albus's words, but for the most part, they all quickly appeared to accept that he was correct. Amos Diggory was the only one who did not agree, and he responded accordingly.

"For Merlin's sake, Albus," he protested, "Minister Fudge is not even in his grave yet, and you want to speak of replacing him?"

"We don't have the luxury of time," Alastor said with a grunt. "Voldemort and his lackeys are not about to sit back and allow us time to grieve and plan an elaborate funeral. You can bet your wand that he's already planning to try to get one of his own into the Minister's office."

"Alastor is correct," Albus agreed. "We cannot afford to wait. I suggest we call an urgent meeting of the Wizengamot for the purpose of electing a new Minister."

Amos still appeared to be a little skeptical, but Augusta spoke up. "In a situation as dire as this, I agree with Albus. We must elect someone who will take the fight to You-Know-Who."

A general murmur of agreement arose at Augusta's words. Albus watched them before forging ahead. "Exactly, Augusta. And to that end, I propose that Amelia should be our candidate."

"Bloody good choice," Moody rumbled and there was a general murmur of agreement, though Albus did see a frown or two.

The most prominent of the frowns, perhaps unsurprisingly, was from Amelia herself, unsurprising, Albus thought with some amusement. Amelia was not exactly the ambitious sort—she had risen through the Auror ranks quickly due to her no-nonsense attitude, her extreme competence, and her drive to protect their society and bring criminals to justice, not due to any sort of drive to attain power for herself. She would have been perfectly content to remain where she was for the rest of her career, Albus was certain. However, she was needed for a higher office.

"I have no desire to become Minister, Albus," was her short reply. "I believe it would be better for me to remain where I am."

"Where you are needed is at the top," Moody interjected gruffly, as he peered intently at Amelia. They had a long history with each other, beginning many years earlier when Alastor had taken a new Amelia Bones under his wing and taught her what would be required of her as an Auror. In many ways, the woman she was today was a result of that early tutelage and they still maintained close ties. For once, as Alastor's focus was on the DMLE Director, his magical eye was also still rather than spinning about as it normally did. "You're by far the best choice we have."

"Thank you, Alastor," Albus acknowledged. "And I agree. The ultra conservative Pureblood block will not accept you, but then they would not accept anyone we put forward. But to all the other factions, I believe you will be an admirable compromise. The other Purebloods will support you because you are a Pureblood yourself, the moderates will because you have a reputation for honesty and fairness, and they know you will not sell them out to Voldemort, as some others might. The neutrals will also, by and large, accept you, though those families who lean toward the supremacists will lean that way regardless. I believe that with you as our candidate, we can assemble a coalition which will elect you. I do not doubt that anyone else we could select would be much more difficult to elect."

Amelia glared at him. The heat emanating from her eyes would undoubtedly have sent a lesser man running for cover. Albus merely gazed back at her pleasantly, waiting for her to bow to the inevitable. He knew that she had no real desire to be Minister, but he was also aware of the fact that she would not shirk from the duty once she was persuaded that it was necessary.

"What about you, Albus?" she finally asked, breaking the silence. "You are the most famous, and most respected wizard in the country—perhaps even in the entire world. Would you not be a more acceptable choice?

"Oh, heavens no," Albus replied with a chuckle. "Not only do I believe that I am much better suited—and better served—in trying to lead the Wizengamot, but I already have enough on my plate now.

"Besides, I am far too polarizing a figure to be considered for the office of Minister. I may have some support in the Wizengamot, but I would think that there would be enough who would oppose me to make my election a chancy prospect at best."

"Amelia, I think you should listen to Albus and Alastor," Arthur spoke up from where he had been listening quietly to the conversation. Amelia turned and stared at him a trifle impatiently.

"Not you too, Arthur."

"I am afraid so," Arthur replied with a soft smile. "I am well aware that your ambitions have never included the Minister's office. But for the sake of us all, I must add my voice to these others and ask you to set that aside. We need a strong Minister who all can follow. And we need someone who understands what it will take to defeat You-Know-Who."

Albus sat back in his seat, regarding Amelia—he could see that she was wavering. Arthur was a good man, he mused. Thought he was often though of with some scorn in the upper echelons of Pureblood society—due in part to his family's relatively modest means, and in part due to the political views of a part of that society—and was seen as being somewhat eccentric given his fascination for all things Muggle, no one mistook Arthur for a fool. He did not state his opinion often, being far too diffident in character to take the lead. When he did, those with whom he was acquainted took notice and gave his words careful consideration. Amelia, having known him for quite some time, was one of those who valued his opinion and was likely to give heed to it.

"We will, of course, not push you if you are truly unwilling, Amelia," Albus spoke up. "But I truly believe that you are by far our best and most viable candidate."

"I can also offer you French support," Jean-Sebastian spoke up. He then smiled in an amused manner. "At least, I can give you my support, and I believe our Minister will be ecstatic should you choose to pursue the Minister's seat. We may even be able to negotiate a more martial assistance, should you be elected. It may go without saying, but if a Voldemort supporter is elected, it is more likely that my superiors will take an opposing stance against the British Ministry. I might even be called home."

Amelia glared around the room, but it seemed as though there was no fire left in her eyes. "It appears like you have me boxed into a corner."

"You always have a choice, Amelia," Albus replied quietly. "It is just that the choices are not always equal."

"Very well," Amelia acknowledged. "What is your plan?"

Albus glanced around the office. "Speed will be of the essence, as I doubt that Voldemort will allow an opportunity like this to go by the wayside. I will call the Wizengamot into emergency session, but we will need to carefully consider how to push our candidate to the Minister's office."

The ensuing discussion lasted well into the late hours of the morning. By the time they adjourned and Albus was able to return to Hogwarts, he was satisfied with what they had decided. It had been a tragic day, but he was confident that the British Wizarding world would soon be in far better hands than it had been until only a few hours earlier.

* * *

Unfortunately, hunting Horcrux information had been no more fruitful in the north of Egypt than it had been in the south. In the two weeks since Remus and Tonks had returned north, they had wandered the various communities of the delta, growing increasingly desperate for any hint of success, but so far, nothing had presented itself. And regardless of Remus's statements to Tonks back in Aswan, he doubted the information they sought could be found in Israel, or any of the areas the ancient Egyptians had conquered. Or perhaps more importantly, it would be akin to finding a needle in a haystack if it did exist. It would seem to be found in Egypt, or not at all.

Remus sat in the hotel room, his chin held in one hand, deep in thought as he tried to figure a way through this muddle. Nothing they tried had led them to any information of any use, and the time had almost come for them to take stock and figure out what to do next. The few pieces of information they had managed to gather—such as the few short words from the goblins and what Qareeb had told them—suggested that whoever had erased all reference of Horcruxes from Egypt had done a very thorough job of it.

Bill's comments before they left kept drifting back into Remus's consciousness. The fact that curse breakers working for Gringotts had not come into contact with Horcruxes in Egypt was telling, and even more importantly, the fact that they had done so in other areas of the world was perhaps worth exploring. The question was exactly when to pull the plug on Egypt—if he thought there was any chance of finding something in Egypt, there was no question but to pursue it. It appeared, however, that they were rapidly coming to a cessation of all hope in that quarter.

Of lesser importance—though of more personal concern—was the situation with Tonks. Sighing, Remus settled back further into his chair and idly glanced at the door separating him from the woman who was causing him untold amounts of discomfort. One consequence of their time in Egypt had been the woman's discovery and delight in the amenities offered in the Muggle world. Though she was a Halfblood and Ted Tonks was a Muggleborn, she had primarily lived her life in the magical world, partially because her mother, though she had been open-minded enough to marry a Muggleborn, was much more comfortable there, and partially because it was extraordinarily difficult to hide a young metamorphmagus in the Muggle world before they gained control over their abilities. Thus, she was not overly familiar with many things in the Muggle world and, as a result, this trip had been somewhat of an eye-opener to her. In the magical world, for example, water was heated through runes on the faucets—which incidentally, also conjured the water in the first place—and it left via banishing runes etched on the drain. She found the fact that the Muggle world accomplished the same thing through ingenuity and mechanical devices to be fascinating, leading Remus to wonder with some amusement if she had thought Muggles still heated their water over open fires and used candles to light their rooms. For some of those in the magical world, his rumination would not have been far off, he knew.

She was on the other side of that door, he mused, taking a shower before they left to begin their day of searching. The heat of the Egyptian spring was such that she often complained of being sweaty and unclean, and had taken to showering at all hours of the day or night. Remus sat thinking about the situation and watching the door, trying not to picture in his mind her exact state at that moment. Tonks _was_ a very attractive woman, after all…

The fact of the matter was that the situation with her was not as simple as it had been when they had begun this wild griffon chase. Remus was not exactly well-versed on an intimate basis with members of the female sex, for the simple fact that he had never wanted to saddle a woman with his affliction. As a young boy and man thereafter, he had had the companionship of his friends and did not particularly feel the need to try to find a girl. His years between the death of James and Lily, and his year of teaching at Hogwarts had largely been spent alone, first because he was too devastated with the destruction of his world to socialize, and since then with the struggle to survive based on the fact that he was unemployable in the Wizarding world, and had no skills to speak of which would enable him to find work in the Muggle.

But though he was not truly familiar with the different ways in which a woman showed a man that she was interested—or the reverse—he would have had to be blind to miss the blatant signals she had been giving him of late, making him wonder if she was acting so now due to the fact that he had missed her signs earlier in their mission. Her constant brushing up against him, her ever more determined flirting, the way she tried to make herself appear as attractive as she could—both with her innate talents and a variety of cosmetics she had found in the Muggle world—not to mention the way that she almost appeared to be devouring him with her eyes at times, would have made a dead man sit up and take notice. Or at least it would if the dead man had any taste to appreciate how wonderful a catch she was.

To be honest, over a decade of being alone had made him long for some human contact. With all due respect to Padfoot, the other Marauder simply did not provide—nor would Remus have wanted him to provide!—the kind of company he longed for. Tonks was bubbly and fun, and she was a good influence on him, as he tended to be somewhat quiet and reserved. He was never truly able to allow himself to get close to her, however, as the moment he began to indulge in any thoughts of her beyond the platonic, the specter of his lycanthropy reared its ugly head, and he found himself pulling away from any hint of such a relationship. He could not saddle any woman—much less one he liked so much—with his affliction.

Groaning, and knowing that he had been around and around this in his head countless times in the past two weeks, Remus leaned his forehead against his hand and thought irritably about the unfairness of life. It did not help that the moon would be full in just three days, which always made him irritable. It did, however, help to remind him of his situation and keep him from acting in a foolish manner.

Turning his attention away from his personal problems, he thought of the upcoming full moon. He had just about decided that that event would be about the limit of this phase of their search. After that they would have to discuss the situation and decide what to do. Though Remus absolutely refused to consider the possibility of abandoning their mission, perhaps it was time to now begin looking in some other place for what they needed. Anything was better than wandering around with no specific foresight or plan.

The door opened and out stepped Tonks, still toweling her hair dry. Blinking in surprise at the sudden interruption of his thoughts, Remus looked about and spied the clock on the wall. He had been sitting there with his thoughts for longer than he had realized, and it was now approaching the time they needed to leave. The day's round of searching and useless questioning was at hand.

"Where to today, oh fearless leader?" Tonks said with a levity that Remus simply could not feel. As she approached, she draped the towel around her shoulders and smiled at him in her ever irrepressible manner.

"The same as we've done since we arrived," Remus said, a trifle gruffly. Acknowledging his thoughts and feelings—specifically with regard to his affliction and his desires and wants—always darkened his mood. The realization that he could not have what he wanted made his mood even more morose. Unfortunately one almost always went with the other.

He turned his attention back to Tonks, apprehending the fact that she had not responded yet. As he looked up at her, he could see an expression of compassion on her countenance, and he wondered what she was thinking.

"And if we can't find anything?"

Her question was blunt, but pertinent to their situation, though Remus did not even like the mere thought of giving up on their search. In that instant he was glad he had considered the situation before she had raised it—knowing that they were not at a complete dead end allowed him to have some hope, whereas he might have snapped at her had he not already prepared all of this in advance.

"Then we will have to look elsewhere."

Tonks nodded briefly before a mischievous expression came over her face and she crossed the room in a few strides and plopped herself down on his lap. Remus stiffened at the sudden contact, wondering at her audacity—touching his hand or face, flirting with him, or throwing an arm around his shoulders she had done. She had never gotten this close before.

"Would you care to elaborate on that cryptic little statement?" she asked, completely oblivious to his discomfort. Or, Remus suspected, she was well aware of it and chose to ignore it. That was certainly something she would do.

Remus forced himself to relax and ignore her proximity. "Bill told me that Horcruxes have been found in other parts of the world. Maybe we can look in some of those locations."

"Such as?" Tonks prompted with a raised eyebrow.

"Some of the islands of the South Pacific, and some areas in Central America for starters. We've not found bloody anything in Egypt, and I'm beginning to think we're beating a dead hippocampus."

Tonks regarded him, chewing her lower lip in thought. "Are you sure about this? Dumbledore said to look in Egypt."

"I'm not sure of anything," Remus replied. He was beginning to get used to the close proximity, and to enjoy it. It took a good bit of his willpower to avoid putting his arms around her. "If we had the time to move every rock in Egypt I might suggest we stay here and keep searching. That we have not been able to come up with even a shred of information suggests that there simply isn't anything left here to find. At some point we will need to face the facts.

Nodding absently, Tonks was silent for a moment. Then, seeming to come to a decision, she turned and looked directly in his eyes.

"Remus—"

He would never know what she was about to say for at that moment, Remus heard movement out in the hallway and before he could do more than start, the door flew open and several wand wielding people stepped into the room, spells already issuing from their raised wands. Hampered as he was by Tonks sitting on his lap—her wand was likely still in the bathroom—Remus attempted to rise and protect his companion.

Almost literally before he could move he was magically bound, disarmed and silenced while next to him Tonks was in the same straits. It had taken less than a few seconds. They were firmly, though not roughly, taken and seated in two chairs which had been set side by side, and Remus was able to get a closer look at their attackers. They were all locals, most appearing to be regular men that they would not look at twice if they passed them on the street. They were not look disreputable in the slightest. Of course, they _had_ just burst into their room, disarming and incarcerating them without so much as a word, which certainly did not indicate friendly intent.

Once they had been seated—all without any of the men speaking a word to them—a man entered and approached them. He was tall, swarthy in complexion like most of those in Egypt, and carried himself with a hint of arrogance. He was also clearly confident and used to being obeyed, as his hand signal sent all of those who had participated in the assault from the room without protest. He stopped and regarded them for a moment before approaching and, pulling up another chair, sat facing them directly.

"And what do we have here?" he asked, seemingly speaking to himself. His voice held a definite local accent, but he spoke English well enough to be completely understood. He peered at them as though weighing something in his mind, before taking his wand, which was held casually in one hand, and cancelling the silencing charms on them. "Well? What do you have to say for yourselves? Why are you in Egypt?"

"I'm not sure what business it is of yours," Remus replied. "Is this the way you treat visitors to your country?"

"Ah, but you are not ordinary visitors, are you?" the man responded with a pleasant smile. He was acting like they discussing nothing more weighty than the weather."Two magicals, spending over six weeks in Egypt, travelling from Cairo up the river to Aswan, and then back up to the delta, asking questions the entire way."

"Is it a crime to do so? Or is there some limit on the amount of time we may spend here?"

"_That_ is not my concern. It is the questions you have been asking as you travelled which raised such alarm."

Remus and Tonks exchanged a glance. They had hoped that their inquiries would be subtle enough to be missed by the local authorities. Once they had been in the country for several weeks, thoughts of discovery were, by that time, remote, and though they had still been careful in their activities, that need to remain undiscovered had faded to the background, replaced by the growing desperation to find anything at all which would help them. It appeared that they had neither been as subtle or as unobtrusive as they had thought.

"Soul magic," the man continued. "You have travelled extensively in Egypt, searching for references to soul magic, though in general it is regarded as relatively useless and in many cases quite dark. On occasion, you have actually become more specific, asking direct questions about an ancient magic known as a Horcrux, in your tongue."

He was clearly trying to provoke a reaction from them by the utterance of the word, almost as though he was uncertain of what exactly they were doing in the country. This was almost certainly correct, Remus thought, and given the nature of the magic, likely for no good purpose.

"A Horcrux?" Remus attempted to obfuscate, but the man's reaction was nothing more than a withering glare.

"Do not attempt to disguise what you have been doing. You have been tracked since you entered this land."

"Then why did you not approach us before?"

"You were deemed an annoyance," the man replied. "There are often treasure hunters of a sort active here, looking for ancient knowledge and treasure. As long as you looked and found nothing, you were not a risk, so the decision was made to leave you alone. That changed with your questions in Aswan, however, and more importantly with the subject matter you are pursuing."

Remus was puzzled. "What happened in Aswan?"

"That is not the issue now. The issue is what we do with you."

"I assure you that we have broken no laws, and have created no problems," Remus replied. "We are looking for information to assist a friend. I was not aware that it is against the law."

"Perhaps you have not. However, searching after such knowledge, you must admit, is extremely suspicious. You say you are trying to help a friend. Who would be assisted by having such knowledge? And for you to be _Englishmen_ seeking it… Well, suffice it to say that the situation will not go well for you if you are affiliated with the dark lord who plagues your homeland."

"You know of the dark lord?" Remus asked.

A tight nod met his query. "We do."

"Then perhaps you should have merely asked us what we were doing," Tonks broke in. "I was not aware that the Egyptian Ministry was in the habit of firing curses before asking questions."

"The Ministry!" the man said with amusement. "No, I am not affiliated with the Ministry. They see to the common good of the people, while I see to the preservation and protection of knowledge of all kinds."

"Then you know something of Horcruxes!" Remus exclaimed, suddenly excited for this encounter.

"Much more than I care to," the man admitted.

"Then we must speak to you about it," Remus said eagerly. "I can't tell you here exactly what we are searching for here, but it is imperative that we discover more information about these Horcruxes."

The man looked at them evenly. "I presume that this _does_ have something to do with your current dark lord problem?"

"It does," Remus admitted. "But I can assure you that we are not affiliated with him; quite the opposite in fact. I'm willing to swear a magical oath on it if you would like."

The speculation with which Remus's words were greeted gave him some hope that they would finally be able to find the answers for which they had been searching. At least it was the first ray of light they had managed to find since arriving.

"For now, that will not be necessary," the man replied. "To continue on your quest for knowledge, a magical oath would become required. However, for now, I believe that we need to discuss this in a more secure location. I represent a society which takes an interest in all such things. I believe that you need to be presented to the elders of our society so that we may verify the truth of your statements and decide how to proceed."

"Please," Remus replied most earnestly. "We need this information, not only to help someone very close to me, but also to learn how we may fight the dark lord in our land."

Nodding, the man rose and called out to the men waiting out in the hall. In a quick fashion Remus and Tonks were released and escorted from the premises in the company of the man, though their wands were not returned to them. By this point, Remus truly did not care. They had finally found something after weeks of searching. And while this man might not possess the knowledge of Horcruxes they needed, it was a badly needed beginning toward finally finding something of use. It was all Remus could do not to shout in triumph.

_Next: The news of the Department of Mysteries breaks and the trio are forced to answer some questions about what happened. Remus and Tonks are taken before the elders of the secret society, and their purpose is revealed...  
_

* * *

**A/N:**

1. A continued thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed.

2. Now that the Ministry action has happened, there are a few things which need to be covered, after which there are a number of important events coming up in quick succession. Hold onto your hats; things are about to get much hotter.

3. I'm rather anticipating the reaction to the last section with Remus and Tonks. I put a hint in earlier about the origin of this secret society. Kudos to anyone who can figure it out in advance.


	44. Chapter 43 – Breakthrough

**Previously: **Harry wakes up after Voldemort's attempted possession, and is questioned by Madam Bones and the Aurors. Dumbledore tells Bones of the prophecy, and manages to convince her to be their candidate for the Minister's position. Remus and Tonks are captured in their hotel room by a mysterious society, who appear to have some information on Horcruxes.

* * *

**Chapter 43 – Breakthrough**

It was a curious fact that though sleep the night after the action in the Ministry was sparse, none of the three involved felt like they had just spent most of the previous night travelling to a far off location and subsequently engaged in a running battle against not only the dark lord's minions, but the dark wizard himself. Privately Hermione thought it was because they were all still keyed up from their experience. But whatever the reason, she felt like she had been able to sleep a full night rather than the few hours she had managed before rising, due, ironically enough, to the complete _inability _to sleep further. Of course, it was likely that this energy would dissipate during the day, and she would pay for it later, but for now, she was grateful.

Upon awaking, Hermione quickly went through her normal morning routine before she made her way down the stairs to meet up with her friends. Though she supposed that was not quite true any longer. What was Harry now? Boyfriend perhaps? And Fleur—was she now just her closest female friend, or was she something more? Sisters in all but blood? It seemed somewhat pretentious, but also appropriate. Maybe it bore some consideration at a later date. For now she merely wished to see Fleur and Harry and assure herself that they were both well.

In the common room, she discovered that Harry had not yet appeared, though Fleur sat on a sofa staring into the hearth, in which a cheery blaze was roaring. The common room was also dotted with other Gryffindors, speaking with one another, laughing, studying, or preparing for the day's classes. Most appeared to be paying no particular notice to her though she did note that the Weasley twins—who were their only immediate friends present—did give her a glance and nodded a greeting. She also saw that they were watching Fleur intently, thought they were attempting to affect a nonchalance in their manner. Since their friends had suspected something for some time now, it was hardly surprising.

Doing her best to appear as though nothing was out of the ordinary, Hermione approached the sofa on which Fleur sat and flopped down. Fleur, though appearing startled at the sudden intrusion, shot her a look of commiseration.

"How did you sleep?" she asked.

"Well, for what was left of the night," Hermione replied. "Until, of course, my eyes opened and wouldn't close again. You?"

A shrug was Fleur's reply which Hermione took for agreement. They sat in silence, each lost in their thoughts.

"How long do you think we have before everyone finds out?" Fleur finally asked, breaking the comfortable silence which had arisen between them.

"I would hope we'd have today at least," Harry said as he approached and sat down on Fleur's other side. "It's only been a couple of hours."

They all agreed that Harry was likely correct and after a few moments of companionable silence they rose and began making their way down to the Great Hall for some breakfast, as all three felt themselves to be rather famished. They could not have imagined the hornet's nest they were walking into.

As it was still early, there were still relatively few students there and most of those were seventh years immersed in their seemingly endless studying for NEWTs which were rapidly approaching. The trio sat down at Gryffindor table, quietly conversing while they ate a leisurely breakfast. As the time wore on they were joined by their friends and their private conversation came to a halt, which was likely for the best in any case; they had only been dwelling on the events of the previous evening, after all. All in all, it appeared to be nothing more than a typical Sunday morning.

All that changed when the owl post arrived.

At first nothing appeared amiss, as the owls entering the Great Hall was an every day occurrence. The morning mail was delivered to those to whom it was addressed and then, as the family owls were winging on their way to begin the return journey, or to the owlery as the case may be, post owls carrying the Daily Prophet arrived en masse, carrying their cargo to the student population.

Having learning, especially through the debacle of the tournament the previous year, the wizarding press was not to be trusted to tell the truth, Hermione generally ignored the paper which was dropped in her vicinity, in favor of finishing the last bits of her breakfast, and concentrating on her conversation with Ginny who sat beside her. A gasp from her side drew her attention. She turned and saw Harry staring at the open newspaper. Hermione could only echo his reaction when she saw the headline.

_Boy-Who-Lived Defies Returned Dark Lord!_

What followed was a lurid retelling of the events of the previous evening, or at least those which occurred in the Ministry atrium. The entire first page was devoted to the story, and though there was speculation and outright innuendo, the facts from the event were largely accurate, from the confrontation between Voldemort and Dumbledore, to the Minister's death at the hands of the dark lord, to Voldemort's flight once it became obvious that he had been discovered. The most chilling of all, was the picture accompanying the leading story. In it, Voldemort could be seen with a murderous glare, then recoiling in sudden consternation before fleeing through the Floo as dozens of spells impacted the wall behind him. It was perhaps a small blessing that the Minister's death had occurred before the press had arrived as, given what Hermione knew about the Prophet, she thought the picture would have shown the man's death by Voldemort's wand. He had been a corrupt, ineffectual fool, but no one deserved to have so ignominious an end emblazoned on the front page of the national newspaper for all to see.

But that was not all. The stories went on for several pages and there was not much which was left out. The fight in the Department of Mysteries, the intervention, and Dumbledore's duel with Voldemort were all covered in great detail. In fact, somehow some of the events in the Time Room had also been betrayed to the Prophet, as there was a description of the events which had taken place there. It included Harry's discussion with Malfoy, Bellatrix's threats and a description of the battle. The fact that the three had held their own against the much more experienced Death Eaters and that it had been Hermione who had put Lucius Malfoy out of the battle were also front and center in the account. Though she was not certain, Hermione almost suspected the hand of Rita Skeeter and her illegal animagus form for the account, though the woman's name did not appear anywhere in the paper.

Perhaps most significantly was the speculation concerning the prophecy. The exact text had not been betrayed of course, but now that its existence had been discovered, speculation ran rampant as to its contents. The one thing which was agreed upon was that as it concerned Harry and the dark lord had been interested in obtaining it for himself, that it probably foretold some impediment to the dark lord's plans in which Harry was instrumental. One of the Prophet's writers had coined the title "The Chosen One" in reference to Harry, making the case that Harry, as he had already defeated the dark lord once and had continued to defy him, was destined to end the menace he posed once and for all. Hermione was offended for Harry—how dare these people who had alternately slandered and reviled him drop such a heavy burden on his shoulders!

Hermione looked aside at Harry and Fleur noting their matching stunned expressions. They had known that the story would get out—it could hardly be contained—but the true extent had not been one that any of them had envisioned. Hermione glanced back at the paper with contempt, but also a certain level of grudging respect; the writers and printers at the Prophet must have worked feverishly to produce it in the few hours since it had all happened.

All about them the murmurs began, as students read the accounts and looked at them with speculation, awe, or, in some cases, outright hostility. Of course most of the latter originated from the Slytherin table, the chief of which was the ever-present nemesis and resident bigot Draco Malfoy. The look he gave Hermione was so poisonous that it caused her to shiver slightly in disgust. He would bear careful watching the future.

"I think you might have some explaining to do," Ron hissed from where he sat across the table.

"Pipe down, Ron," one of the twins stepped in.

"We should talk about this somewhere else," agreed the other.

"Let's go then," said Neville.

Sighing, Harry agreed and rose to leave the Hall, albeit reluctantly. It appeared like their friends were going to have an accounting and nothing would keep them from it.

* * *

An incensed Draco Malfoy watched the assorted blood traitors and Mudbloods, Potter's general cadre of lesser beings, as they rose from their respective tables and made their way from the Great Hall. He also noted with some disgust the fact that both Davis (who he truly could not care less about, other than the fact that the misguided hat had seen fit to place the girl in Slytherin) and Greengrass (who most certainly _did_ concern him) were among his entourage. _That_ was a situation which would need to be dealt with. Davis was just a Halfblood and as such, could go hang herself for all he cared, but regardless of her family's politics, Greengrass was at the very least a proper Pureblood. It was high time that she began to act like one. For a moment he was tempted to follow them and wreak bloody vengeance upon the lot if them for this indignity, but he forced himself to stop and consider the situation.

The previous night's events had obviously been the culmination of the instructions he and his friends had received in the past several days. But somehow it had all gone horribly wrong. It was Potter again, along with that meddling old fool Dumbledore.

Even more than that, the fact that a Mudblood—no better than _an animal!_—had raised her wand—a tool she should not even possess!—against his father! Lucius Malfoy was a Pureblood of long standing and pedigree! How dare she? The mere thought of it filled him with a rage which almost caused him to lose his carefully cultivated control. All those who supported Potter must be made to pay the price for their temerity!

But now was not the time. Draco and the rest of Slytherin—at least the right thinking part of the house—were the Dark Lord's eyes and ears in the school. Hopefully at some point they would also serve as his sword of vengeance. But as much as he would revel in causing Granger's screams to echo through the halls of Hogwarts, he would exercise patience and restraint for the time being so that he did not provoke the old Muggle lover. Their day would surely come, but it would come in the time of the Dark Lord's choosing and in the manner he deemed best.

In the meantime, he would wait and watch, knowing that the Dark Lord was not sitting idly by. The Dark Lord would undoubtedly need information as to what was happening in the school, and Draco meant to provide it. Then he would be rewarded when the Dark Lord's ultimate victory was achieved as it assuredly must.

"Draco!" someone hissed by his side.

Draco turned and noted that Nott was watching him with a burning intensity. As his father had also been at the Ministry the previous evening, he had as much reason to be infuriated as Draco himself, though of course the Notts did not inhabit the social heights of the Malfoys, nor were they as old and respected. Crabbe and Goyle were also sitting by with grim expressions on their faces, as their fathers had also been part of the strike force. They had not an ounce of intelligence between them and were not truly useful for anything more than additional muscle. Nott, however, would be a valuable ally.

"What are we going to do about this… this…" He gestured wildly at the offending piece of newsprint which sat upon the table.

"Nothing," Draco replied shortly.

Nott's eyes narrowed and he nodded shortly after a moment. "Wait for the Dark Lord's instructions?"

"Exactly," Draco replied with a short nod. "I'm sure the Dark Lord has something in mind for Potter and his merry band of misfits. We need to be ready to dispense his justice when the time comes."

"Very well," Nott replied. "But eventually they will pay."

"For more than just this."

Draco turned to look at his other friends. Crabbe and Goyle appeared determined, Bulstrode in agreement, though somewhat disinterested, while Pansy simply looked on with her usual level of disdain for those who were not her equal. The girl was fanatical in her loyalty, though it was extremely unfortunate that she was so plain. It would not do to have a future leader of society such as himself associated so closely with one who was below him.

Contemplatively, Draco turned his gaze toward the doors. Potter and his crew had already left the hallway, but he was not really thinking of the Gryffindor golden boy, though two of his so-called friends featured rather prominently in Draco's thoughts. Greengrass was, he reflected, a truly impressive specimen of feminine attractions, and an overall impressive Pureblood. Of course he had known this for quite some time, but as she matured, it became even clearer to him that the girl was exceptional.

There was her unfortunate tendency to run with Potter these days, but Draco figured that with the proper guidance and instruction, she would make him a proper wife. Yes, it was decided—he would have her for a wife. She was his match in every way and would be a truly striking adornment on his arm. Their children would be stupendous—the next leaders of Pureblood society.

And as for Parkinson, well, he knew that she had her heart set on him, though there was certainly nothing arranged between them. But she was simply not up to his standards. She could marry Crabbe or Goyle—it truly did not matter which one. He could make it a sort of reward for one of them for their years of service and support—a sort of a contest between them which would only help improve their loyalty and inspire them to please him. Draco smiled to himself as he arranged it all in his head.

And as for the other one…

The thought of Granger and her actions of the previous night still filled him with rage, though he had a better control over it now. Whatever happened, Draco knew that she must pay for her actions. She had been a thorn in his side for far too long; it was nearly time to pluck that thorn and consign it to the fire where it belonged.

* * *

Following their departure from the Great Hall, Fleur followed their friends along with Harry and Hermione, noting that the faces around them all held expressions of annoyance and displeasure. Fleur could empathize, especially for Ron who had been neck deep in Harry's adventures until she herself had shown up on the scene this year. Fleur was not blind—she was well aware that Ron sometimes struggled with his more limited time in the company of his best friend and she had tried to allow them their time and not get in the way.

However, she was not to willing to—nor did she think she should—give way to those of his previous acquaintance. To be fair to Ron, she did not truly think that he wanted her to defer to him. It was simply an adjustment for them all. They would all, however, simply need to get used to the fact that Harry was at the center of the struggle against Voldemort and as such, so were she and Hermione to an extent due to their relationships with him. There would undoubtedly be times when Harry would not be able to share all he knew. They would all need to learn to accept that fact.

The unused classroom where they were to have their conversation was reached quickly and they all filed in and found seats in the various chairs which were to be found around the room. As it was the room which Fleur had often used to train Harry and Hermione in Occlumency it was at least clean. As Fleur took her seat next to Harry, she turned to look over the room's occupants, reflecting on their connection to Harry and their general personalities and what they meant to Harry.

Ron, of course, was Harry's oldest friend and though she had not always had the best opinion of him—particularly during his almost shouted invitation to the Yule Ball during the tournament—he had grown into himself, becoming more solid and dependable. His sister was still afflicted by her infatuation for Harry, but she had also improved and matured, becoming more relaxed and more confident. And the twins, ever irrepressible, but ever dependable—there were few who would be fiercer supporters once they gave their allegiance.

Then there was Neville, the solid and quiet Gryffindor, as true a friend could be, lacking in confidence, perhaps, but quickly gaining with the closer relationships he had been able to forge this year. And little Luna, perhaps the oddest of the group, yet behind her spacey persona, Fleur knew there existed a keen intellect and a highly independent character. The two of them would perhaps have seemed to most observers to be a rather unlikely couple, but in truth they seemed rather well suited—Neville with his quiet solidity was balanced nicely by Luna's somewhat spacey personality, not to mention her intelligence. Then there was the Hufflepuff addition to their group, Susan who was the epitome of loyalty and good sense like her house suggested, but was also competent and level-headed, a truly calming influence on them all.

And finally, perhaps the most surprising members of their clique, the Slytherins. Tracey was blunt and forthright, but always willing to lend a helping hand or a willing ear. And Daphne was perhaps the most devious Slytherin that she knew personally, ambitious and cunning, yet personable and very knowledgeable.

Of course, Fleur suspected that Daphne had more in mind than purely friendship when it came to Harry. Fleur knew that Daphne, though perhaps she would not choose an arranged marriage for herself, would agree to become a second wife if she thought it would help her and her family's situation. It was a devious trait, in keeping with her Slytherin nature, but also somewhat Hufflepuff-ish as well. Fleur was not certain what to think of that prospect. She had already agreed not to stand in the way of Harry's happiness, but accepting Hermione as a second wife and accepting Daphne were two completely different things—he did not have the shared history and feelings with the Slytherin girl that he had with Hermione after all. Fleur was not certain how she would react to the suggestion that she open her arms to Daphne should the occasion arise. Still, the girl was pleasant and fun to be around, so Fleur felt that she could accept her if it would make Harry happy, _and_ if she felt Harry harbored the appropriate feelings for her. Not that she thought that Harry was seriously considering her. At least not yet.

Perhaps it was unsurprising that Ron was the first spokesman of the gathering of their somewhat disgruntled friends, given his longstanding friendship with Harry.

"Harry," he began much more calmly than Fleur would have expected only a few short months before, "it seems like you had a bit of a busy night last night."

Tracey snorted in response to Ron's statement. "Seems to be a bit of an understatement, don't you think?" the girl stated, brandishing the offending newspaper which had them all in a tizzy. "I would have hoped that you would have at least let us know that you planned to confront bloody You-Know-Who himself!"

"Maybe we should all calm down a little," one of the twins said.

"I'm sure Harry and his lovely ladies have a reasonable explanation for this," added the other.

Harry sighed and glanced at both Hermione and herself, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Fleur smiled and nodded, knowing that their friends would not be happy with anything other than a full disclosure of what had been happening, though there were some things which could not be divulged.

"I will tell you what I can," said Harry after a slight hesitation.

Ron bristled at the implication that Harry would not divulge all, but he was quickly cut off by the voice of a certain ethereal blond Ravenclaw.

"I'm sure Harry would tell us everything if he could," Luna said. "There must be things that he needs to keep secret." She turned to Harry and smiled at him. "We would love to hear whatever you can tell us, Harry."

Usually Luna almost appeared to be inhabiting some other dimension than the rest of them and Fleur suspected that she possessed at least a hint of the talent of premonition, if not a full blown gift of prophecy. This time, however, she was focused and intent as she spoke, something Fleur—much less the rest of them—was certainly not used to. So incongruous was her behavior that more than one of the friends looked at her with a modicum of surprise and attention. Luna behaving in a serious manner was oddly compelling.

"Thank you, Luna," Harry said with a smile for the quirky Ravenclaw. "There are some things that I can't tell you, but we'll tell you what we can." He stopped and a stern expression came over his countenance. "But you can't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you—it has to remain a complete secret."

When their friends all murmured their assent, some with rolled eyes—the secrecy comment _was_ a little obvious—Harry launched into the telling of the story. He told them everything he could, from learning of the prophecy—though he only described it in general terms and not in detail—to the fear that Voldemort was trying to get his hands on it, to the plan to lure Voldemort into the Ministry so that he could be discovered, and finally, to the events of the previous night. He stuck to the facts and did not venture into other territory, meaning that he did not discuss Horcruxes, nor did he say anything about his connection with the dark lord.

When he had completed his tale, he fell silent and sat back, watching carefully as the others digested what he had told them. Fleur noticed the slight hesitation in his manner as he looked at them and instinctually understood that he was protecting himself from rejection, much like he had acted after he had told Hermione and herself of the Horcrux. It was, perhaps, a ghost of a self-preservation instinct still remaining from his time with his relatives, or the incidents in his earlier Hogwarts years where he had been looked on with suspicion and distrust. He might not have bothered, Fleur mused. This group of friends they had assembled was not fickle, nor were they faint of heart; Fleur had no doubt they would stand with Harry no matter what happened.

"That's some story, Harry," Ron commented after a moment's silence. "Even crazier than some of the other things which have happened since you got here. That takes some doing."

"Crazy or not, I'm more interested in this prophecy," Daphne commented. "I assume you would not even have mentioned it if the press had not gotten their hands on it."

"Would _you?_" Harry asked somewhat snidely. "I'm already routinely reviled and praised—why would I want something for them to heap even more unwanted attention on me?

"Not to mention the fact that the Prophet has already latched onto it, calling me 'The Chosen One'." Harry snorted with disgust. "Chosen to save a bunch of people who won't even get off their arses long enough to save themselves!"

"Now that Fudge is gone, hopefully we will get a Minister who will fight back," Neville suggested.

Harry waved him off. "I know that I'm generalizing a bit, Neville. But you have to admit that a lot of people are like sheep. They bleat and follow the loudest voice, run around in a frenzy when the wolf gets close, and run and hide instead of fighting back. And that doesn't even consider the fact that they want to dump their salvation on a fifteen year old and try to wash their hands of the matter entirely."

Though it was a rather stark indictment on the Wizarding world in general, Fleur found that she was not really able dispute it. Harry had been a part of this world for almost five years and this had essentially been his experience. It was what it was.

"You'll get no argument from me," Daphne chimed in yet again, "but I want to go back to this prophecy. I noticed that you did not tell us the actual text of it."

"And I'm not going to," Harry replied firmly. "Only a few people know what it actually says, and we'd like to keep that number to a bare minimum. The more people who know the secret, the harder it is to keep."

"Then You-Know-Who doesn't know it all?"

Harry shook his head and launched into the tale of the prophecy's history and the Death Eater who had shared what he had heard with Voldemort. Once he was finished, Daphne wore an openly skeptical expression on her face.

"Is the part he's missing really _that_ important?"

"Dumbledore thinks it is," Hermione replied. "He thinks Voldemort would act differently if he knew it and he wants to keep the advantage we currently have."

"And if Voldemort knew the whole prophecy, he likely wouldn't have attacked me in the first place," Harry added.

Daphne appeared pensive. "And this prophecy states that you can defeat him?"

"Essentially," Harry agreed. "It doesn't say how or even that I will. It only says that I can and that it's either him or me."

"I can understand why you want to keep it a secret," Ginny blurted.

The friends fell silent and a series of looks passed between them. By this time they all knew Harry quite well and were aware of his aversion for being the center of attention. The revelation of the existence of the prophecy was not a welcome one for her betrothed, but she knew that he would handle it with the same poise and determination with which he handled everything which was placed in his path.

"So what's going to happen now?" one of the twins asked.

"Nothing," Harry said firmly. "I'm still just Harry and even though most now know there's a prophecy, I don't want anything to change. Especially amongst us."

"And you know that it won't," Ron said firmly, looking every inch the firm supporter he had grown into. "But things will change in the school. You know that they will."

Harry sighed. "You're right. But I hope I can count on all of your support. I don't want to be treated any different."

"You know we will always stand with you, Harry," said the other twin. "But I think George and I are more interested in what will happen to the Death Eaters."

"With Fudge gone, maybe the Ministry will actually do something about them," Harry snarked. "To be honest, I imagine they will be convicted and sent back to Azkaban. You know what happened the last time Voldemort had supporters in prison."

No one said anything—there was not truly much to say. Everyone was well aware of what had happened only a few short months before, and no one doubted that Voldemort was capable of doing the same thing all over again. Perhaps the Death Eaters could be held in another, secret, location, but Fleur was not conversant enough with Britain, or with the laws of the country, to determine what the Ministry's likely response would be. If someone with even a little more sense than Fudge were elected, hopefully they would see the danger of just shipping them off to Azkaban again and forgetting about them.

"Did anyone notice Malfoy's reaction to today's paper?" Neville spoke into the silence.

"He's likely mad that daddy finally got caught," Fred jibed.

"Must suck to know that daddy's a jailbird," said George.

"We're going to have to watch him carefully," said Fleur. "Who knows what he's capable of?"

"I'll take him apart piece by piece if he touches any one of you," Harry growled.

"I'll help," Ron agreed. "I figure we owe the git for all the rubbish he's pulled over the years."

"For now I think watching him is enough," Hermione interjected. "You can't convict him for things he hasn't done."

"I don't need to see Malfoy actually do anything," Harry said in response. "I always know when he's plotting something—if he's awake, he's scheming."

Again the group fell silent and after a few moments, they began discussing the events of the previous night in a more general manner. Fleur largely stayed out of the conversation, focusing instead on Harry, who was himself less than vocal. The previous night had definitely affected him, though it had been his own plan. He was a complex person, she knew, filled with equal parts bashful avoidance of attention, and a determination to do what was right—what Hermione called his "saving people thing." Of course it went without saying that his determination was what brought him so much more attention than he would ever have had to deal with had he not been cursed with that particular trait.

Fleur would not have him any other way. Without it, who knows what would have happened in the first four years of his schooling? Voldemort might well have returned on that night in his first year, and if he had, there was every possibility that Harry would already have fallen to a newly reconstituted dark lord.

Feeling the pain of such a thought, Fleur shifted a little closer to her betrothed, noting with some satisfaction that he mirrored her actions and caught her hand in his own. She relished the physical contact and watched as he used his thumb to stroke tiny circles absently on the back of her hand. She was so lucky he was who he was and not some arrogant idiot in the mold of Malfoy.

The discussion continued for some time before beginning to peter out, and introspection came over the group of friends. Harry, watching his friends closely, apparently decided that it was time to separate. He cleared his throat, and everyone turned expectantly to him.

"Thanks for your support," he said. Fleur could tell that he was a little emotional by the quaver in his voice. "I think I need to digest some of the things which happened last night, and I need to have a talk with Fleur and Hermione. Could you all excuse us?"

Ron peered back at Harry suspiciously. "More secrets, Harry?"

"Not that I haven't already admitted to. This is a private matter between us."

Seemingly ashamed at his words, Ron stood and approached Harry and put a hand on his shoulder. "Fair enough, mate." Then Ron was silent for a moment, obviously trying to find the words he wished to say. "We trust you, Harry. It's just… It's difficult to be left out, you know?"

"Don't feel left out, Ron," Harry replied, slapping his friend on the shoulder. "You're still my best mate, you know. It's just… I have some responsibilities, you know? I'm still the same Harry. I just… I can't allow anything to happen to Fleur and Hermione, and sometimes keeping them safe involves keeping secrets."

Fleur's heart nearly melted right then and there at Harry's gentle words, not to mention the heart-stopping tender glance he directed at both her and Hermione. It spoke to his regard for them both and the almost infinite amount of love he was capable of holding in his heart.

"But trust me," Harry continued, looking all around the room, "I'm pretty sure that you all will be included in some pretty heavy action before this is all finished. I'll include you all in everything that I can."

"You had better keep Hermione and Fleur safe," replied Ron with a playful growl "Or you'll have the rest of us coming after you."

"Too right, brother of mine," said George, while his twin chimed in with a heartfelt, "Amen!"

"Boys!" Daphne interrupted with a huff. She turned to Harry and said, "We will leave you to have your discussion. But before we go, I think we should have a little talk."

Harry appeared confused. "About what, Daphne?"

"About this tendency of yours to take everything on your own shoulders and to leave others out of the loop." Daphne stopped and seemed to consider her words for a moment or two before she continued, looking up into his eyes, her customary determination evident in her manner. "We're all friends here, Harry, and by now I think that you understand that we are with you until the end, no matter what happens."

A general murmur of agreement met her declaration and Harry appeared like he was almost ready to tear up.

"We're with you, but we want to be more with you, if you take my meaning. You may have to keep secrets at times, Harry Potter, but we would appreciate it if you would at least inform us of what's going on in the future."

"You want me to put you in danger?" has asked, appearing to be slightly perplexed.

"We want you to consider us friends," said Susan Bones, who up until that point had remained largely silent. "We want you to let us help you and share the burden you carry."

Harry smiled at her, apparently pleased at the sentiments expressed, and happy that his friends cared so much. "In this together?"

"Definitely," said Tracey.

"All right everyone," Harry replied somewhat tremulously, his eyes suspiciously misty with suppressed emotion. He regarded the group and said with a sort of gruff playfulness, "You've had your say, all of you. Now I'd appreciate a few minutes alone with Hermione and Fleur."

"Are you sure a few minutes will do?" Fred jibed with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"If it only takes a few minutes, you're some kind of fast worker!" agreed George with a false expression of astonishment.

"You must instruct us, oh great master," they then said in unison while falling to their knees and genuflecting in the classic "We're not worthy" pose.

"All right you two," Harry growled. "That's enough of that."

The rest of the room was in stitches at the twins' antics, and soon Harry was forced to join in with the rest of the laughter. It took several moments for their friends to leave the room, as the laughter and jokes at Harry's expense were far from over. At length, however, they were finally left alone.

Harry turned to Fleur and Hermione and he held out a hand to each of them, and neither was of a mind to refuse the invitation. They sat on an old sofa which was situated to one side of the classroom, Harry in the middle and flanked by the two girls who both still clutched to one of his hands.

"I wanted to talk about what happened last night," Harry began in a hesitant manner, almost as though he expected that they would not wish to discuss it.

"By all means," Fleur said immediately. "You said you had something you wanted to say to us?"

Harry paused for a moment before he visibly worked up his courage and looked up. It was somewhat awkward for him being in the middle as he was addressing both of them, but he gamely pressed on, making sure that they both felt like they were part of the conversation.

"I wanted to thank you for your help last night," he began in a quiet tone of voice. "You were both amazing and I appreciate your willingness to stand with me.

"On the other hand, I was very surprised to see you there and I had wanted to keep you safe." He paused again for a moment and Fleur, noticing that Hermione appeared as though she was about to burst for wanting to make her opinion known, sent the other girl a quelling look over Harry's head. Hermione complied, though not willingly, unless Fleur missed her guess.

"I understand your desire to protect me and be with me and I'm grateful for it. But I think we need to have some ground rules. I can't always be wondering if you will show up when I least expect it and when we agreed that I would be doing something on my own.

"And this is not the first time you have both ignored my wishes," Harry continued, deep in thought. "Even though I didn't want to have anything to do with leading the club, you both pushed and pushed until I gave in."

"Harry," Hermione began, looking like she could not restrain herself any longer, "I would point out that in this instance you _told us _what your plan was and informed us we would not be involved. And with the club you refused to even hear us state our opinions."

"I know what you are saying," Fleur said, "but you must also admit that you have at times been a little heavy-handed in telling us what you wanted us to do. I don't think either Hermione or I want a relationship like that where you don't listen to us and leave us out of something without our consent."

Harry colored a little at their comments and Fleur let go of his hand and put her arm around his shoulders. "Harry, like you, we are both thrilled with how well you take care of us and how you want to keep us safe. But neither Hermione nor I are the type to sit at home and wait for the man of the house to return from a hard day of fighting dark wizards. We want to be involved. We want to protect you like you protect us."

"I suppose that's fair," Harry said with a crooked smile. "But you have to understand that there may be times when I may be doing something you cannot be involved in. When that happens, I need to know that I won't have to worry about you following me and distracting me when I need to be focused."

"I think we both understand that," said Hermione, though she made a bit of a face as she spoke. "We don't really like it, but there's really no choice in the matter, now is there?"

"I'm glad you see it that way," was Harry's simple reply.

The trio spent a considerable length of time in that classroom that day, throughout the morning and into the afternoon, as none of them felt equal to facing the stares and whispers of the rest of the student body. They even summoned Dobby and had him deliver them a simple lunch when they became hungry, just so that they could avoid it for a little longer.

Of course, not all their time was spent in conversation. More than a few kisses were exchanged, leaving Harry breathless, Fleur thought in satisfaction, as she and Hermione would sometimes take their turns, leaving Harry little time to recover in between. His reaction to them was all the Fleur would ever have hoped it would be. The connection which had been taking hold these long months was strengthening and deepening, in part due to their complementary personalities, but also in part due to shared experiences, such as that of the previous night. That day, Fleur felt the first true and recognizable stirrings of love enter her heart.

* * *

After leaving their room, Remus and Tonks were escorted to another room within the hotel at which they were staying, and they were prepared to move to whatever location this order maintained for whatever activities in which they were engaged.

"This room is warded," the spokesman said when Remus raised an eyebrow at him. "We suspected that you would need to go before the council and prepared this room in advance. You may already suspect, but the order is a secret one, its existence known only to a few. We take vows to reinforce this.

"But we're also careful to avoid any attention. Our Ministry can detect Portkeys, but if the room is warded in advance, they will not know from where it originated, or where it is going to."

By now Remus was staring at the man with some curiosity. "Your Ministry actually keeps track of things like that?"

"No, not normally. But they could. Absolute secrecy is required, and we do what we do to maintain it, even if it may not be necessary."

Within moments the Portkeys were brought in and Remus felt the tug of the device behind his navel and he was whisked off to some new location. When the journey ended he found himself in a small room, walls bare and devoid of any sort of furniture or other distinguishing features. It was clearly designated as a receiving area, where their arrival was apparently expected, as they were greeted by a man and a woman, who asked them to step to the side so the others could arrive. It was only a moment later before their guide materialized in the room, accompanied by several of his companions from the hotel.

"This way, if you please," he said, gesturing toward the single door.

As they walked through the hallways, Remus looked about with interest though there was truly not much to be seen. The walls were austere and largely free of any adornment, and the occasional door they passed was equally uninformative. Whether this was by design or due to some other factor, Remus could not be certain, though he suspected the former. Little in the way of adornment could suggest that secrecy was more important to these people than loud proclamations of who and what they were, which fit in with the little they had been told.

They were finally led in to a large, circular room. The room was as stark as the rest of the place they had thus far seen, though it was furnished with thirteen chairs situated on the far side of the room in a semicircle pointing toward the door. In each of these thirteen chairs sat person, some older and some younger. While fully half of them were Arabic, among their numbers were those from all different races.

They were marched into the center of the room to the center of the semicircle where they stood facing the elders of this mysterious society, who watched them with some curiosity. Their attention was drawn to the man in the center. He had long white hair and a trimmed white beard, and reminded Remus of Dumbledore, though neither his robes nor his beard were as flamboyant as the English wizard's were wont to be. He eyed them with a keen and appraising stare, making Remus feel as though all his secrets were now exposed to this man's scrutiny—another trait he apparently shared with the Headmaster.

"What do we have here?" the man finally asked in accented English. "A werewolf and a young metamorph from England."

Feeling slightly nonplussed at the fact that the man knew this much about them—though perhaps, given the events of the morning, Remus thought he should be beyond surprise by now—he inclined his head. "Yes, sir. We are searching for—"

"We are already aware of what you are searching for," the man interrupted. "We noted your arrival and have known of your search since Qareeb reported it. Your actions since then have resulted in our decision to bring you in before us. The real question is why you are searching for Horcruxes."

"You know Qareeb?" Remus asked incredulously.

"He was once the leader of this society," the man replied with a wave of his hand.

Remus and Tonks exchanged a look. It appeared like there was more happening here than they had imagined.

"And just what is this society you are referring to?" Remus asked cautiously.

An Asian sitting on far left responded in heavily accented English, "Most simply call it 'The Society.' Our proper name is 'The Eye of the Pharaoh'."

"You won't find any reference to us anywhere," the elderly man continued. "We guard our secrecy most assiduously, for reasons which will become apparent.

"But the material point is that you are here, looking for forbidden knowledge, and not only that, but you are also from England, which is known to be experiencing difficulties with a reconstituted dark lord. There are only a handful of ways for one to cheat death by magical means, and as a Horcrux is one of them, you must admit it appears quite suspicious.

"We are not affiliated with the dark lord," Remus stated.

"So you say," a woman about halfway down the right side said in a German accent. "You will tell us your story, and then we will judge what aid we can give you, if any."

"But we will warn you now," a black man closest to them on the right said with a hard glare, "if you are searching for knowledge and are in league with your dark lord, it will not go well with you. The best you can expect is to be Obliviated and left to your own devices. The worst is death."

"It's a little late for that, don't you think?" Tonks muttered.

"Now, now," the elderly man who was clearly the leader said, raising his hand. "Let us not descend into threats when we do not even possess the full reasons of why they are here.

"Why don't you tell us your story?" he continued with an encouraging smile.

Knowing that he had no other choice, Remus began telling the tale, detailing the reason why they were in Egypt and what they hoped to accomplish. And though there were things that he might prefer to keep secret, there was really no point in doing so. It was true that he did not know yet if he could trust these people, but he could sense instinctively that they were not associated with the likes of Voldemort. Besides, it seemed as though they had information which was desperately needed, and Remus was not about to pass up the opportunity to finally find something, anything.

When Remus had finished his recitation, he watched the elders as they absorbed the story he had just told them. He was happy to note that there was nothing he could detect in the way of skepticism, only speculation and concern.

"It is well that you have told us the truth." He smiled faintly at them. "What you perhaps had not realized was that this room has been overlaid with runes and enchantments which tell us when a person is speaking the truth.

"It is fortunate that we brought you here then," he continued. "The situation in England is even more disturbing than we had originally thought."

"You've referred to that already," Remus replied with a frown. "Just how aware of what is happening there are you?"

"We have agents in every land and we are always seeking knowledge and wizards who abuse it," was the reply. "As for England, you may not know this, but this Lord Voldemort was revealed as having returned a few days ago. Apparently this Harry Potter of whom you speak was instrumental in his unmasking."

"But if you have knowledge, why do you hoard it? Wouldn't it make more sense to share it and counter the threat?"

"We _do_ share it when necessary," the man stated. "We have been discussing what should be done and who to approach. Likely it would have been your Chief Warlock—in fact, we have deliberated inviting Albus Dumbledore to join our society for many years. But as he has always seemed to be immersed in the business of your country, his school, and the ICW, we refrained."

Remus was confused, but he instinctually understood that he could find out about this at some other time. Right now they needed to focus on obtaining the assistance of these people.

"Are you able to help us?" he asked

"We are," the German woman responded. "However, you must understand that this is not a simple undertaking, nor can the information be given freely and without safeguards."

"Perhaps we should tell you what we represent," the elderly man said. "Then you may determine whether you want our help. If not, we will Obliviate you and send you on your way. If you do wish our help, then you will need to swear oaths and you may seek further for what you require."

Remus inclined his head in agreement of those terms. The elderly man sat back in his chair and indicated to a middle aged Caucasian who sat by his side. "Perhaps you should explain, Samuel," he said. "It would be much easier as English is your native language."

The indicated man was short and balding, and wore the most ridiculous handlebar mustache that Remus had ever seen, twirling up upon itself several times and coming to a sharp point at the end. He appeared the epitome of the stereotypical cartoonish arch-villain which Remus had sometimes seen in Muggle literature. The man smiled at them kindly, however, and immediately put them at ease.

"Of course, Mohammed," he replied with joviality, his accent the twang of the American south. "First, what do you both know of the Great Library of Alexandria?"

"Only that it was destroyed in antiquity," Tonks said.

Remus himself was somewhat surprised. They had joked of how it would be easier if the library was available to them—could it truly still exist?

"Indeed it was," Samuel confirmed. "Though there is some disagreement by historians as to how it was destroyed. We of the society, however, have passed the true history down through the generations."

He stopped for a moment and his expression became introspective. "The Royal Library of Alexandria was an ancient storehouse of knowledge, which was well ahead of its time in the history of the world. Scrolls, numbering in the tens of thousands, were gathered from all areas of the known world, and were studied by scholars, both Egyptian and from many other lands. The library, however, also contained a magical section, which was already, by that time, an old repository of knowledge, both beneficial and the opposite. Egypt was, as you by now are aware, the birthplace of soul magic, and wizards of the time had delved deep into this knowledge. Of course, though soul magic is widely considered today to be somewhat useless and eccentric, the wizards of the time were able to divine uses. Unfortunately, most of these uses were hardly beneficial. It was for this reason that the magical library was kept a careful secret and the task of gathering and archiving, as well as removing from circulation that knowledge which was used for evil purposes had already been under way for centuries, by the time in question.

"You are undoubtedly aware of the first incident which happened during Gaius Julius Caesar's invasion in 48 BC. This did in fact result in the destruction of the library by fire—the other incidents through the centuries which historians believe might have resulted in the destruction of the library actually destroyed other buildings and some remaining works. It was Caesar who brought about the first great damage.

"You must understand that at the time, wards did not exist and charms was not even an acknowledged branch of magic. However, with the use of runes, the ancients were able to accomplish much the same as warders will today, namely, the hiding of the repository, and all manner of protections, including protection from fire, floods, and the like.

"When Caesar fired his own ships, a sudden squall fanned the flames and spread the fire to the docks and the nearby buildings. The library of antiquity was situated near the palace complex which was itself some distance from the docks. However, the resulting firestorm spread through the city and was only contained after much damage was done. Some whispered at the time that there was a magical component to the fire which consumed all in its path. However, none of the great magical scholars of the time were able to detect any truth to that story, and it was determined to have little substance.

"The library, however, _was_ partially destroyed. But the magical section was left largely untouched, with only a few scrolls being damaged, and that by water and the efforts to fight the fire. Once the fire had been suppressed, our forebears discussed what was to happen to the accumulated knowledge, as it was now deemed at risk. Over the course of the next several centuries the library was moved a number of times, before it was finally brought to its current location. The society which was founded to protect its secrets became even more insular and protective, to the point where the oaths and protective magics which now govern us were implemented. The entire complex is now warded by a modified Fidelius; you can be brought here without suffering the effects of disorientation which generally happens with a traditional Fidelius, but that protection can be removed at any time by the secret keeper. You may think that modification a drawback, but as the only people who can Portkey here are brought in by our agents, it helps to be able to allow someone to come in without telling them the secret, as only those who join the society are given the secret. Also, the death of the secret keeper does not render everyone else a secret keeper—instead, that function reverts to the next in seniority, the next after him, and so on. And that does not even mention the other protections which have been added over the years, some of which are quiet vicious. We protect our privacy and the knowledge we archive."

When the man fell silent, Remus considered what he had learned with some surprise. It was a history directly out of a story book, or one of the Muggle mystery novels, which he had read a time or two during his exile in the Muggle world, and something Remus never could have considered being the truth. It simply seemed to be too fantastical to be true.

But he was not about to overlook the very good fortune they had had to be noticed by these people. For now, however, a little more information was required.

"I assure you that we would be willing to swear any oaths you deem necessary to be able to discover all we can. But just to be certain—you do have information on Horcruxes specifically, correct?"

Samuel appeared to be amused by the question. "Horcruxes were the initial reason for the library's existence."

At Remus's blank look, Samuel chuckled and continued. "I won't go into any great detail—you can discover this in the records—but the Horcrux _is_ an Egyptian spell from antiquity. The library repository was created initially to house records of the wizards of the time, and also to safeguard information about Horcruxes, knowledge which had already caused great hardship and trouble. Since that time we have gathered many other forms of knowledge, some beneficial, and some equally dark. Our goal is to remove all dark magics from the world, yet to preserve them in case they are ever needed to combat evil."

"If it's so dark, wouldn't it be better to simply destroy it?" Tonks asked.

This time it was Mohammed who answered. "If we did that, then where would you be now?"

A moment's thought later, Tonks inclined her head.

"It would be better if such knowledge had never been discovered in the first place. Mankind, however, has an insatiable curiosity and at times, and equally insatiable need to do evil. As that is the way of the world, we have no choice but to collected it, and to remove what we can from the world, saving it for any possible future need.

"And we have been successful," he continued. "Your journey through Egypt should be proof enough—I doubt you could find a manuscript anywhere in Egypt which has more than a vague description on the subject any more. And with the exception of your Lord Voldemort, I doubt a Horcrux has been created in more than three hundred years, and much, much longer in Egypt. The fact that your dark lord has created one at all is troubling, as we had thought we had long eradicated any knowledge of how to make one."

Remus frowned. "It's possible that he came across some information which allowed him to reconstruct the ritual himself. But I must admit that I'm confused. We spoke with a curse breaker who told us that his colleagues had come across Horcruxes in other parts of the world."

"Yes, that is true," Samuel agreed. "But those Horcruxes would have been created centuries ago. _It is true_ that we have not been as successful in other parts of the world as we have been here, as the society is more concentrated in Egypt than in any other place in the world. But even so, I doubt there are many records left anywhere else which would contain instructions on Horcrux creation. The society has not found such a document in hundreds of years anywhere in the world."

Remus glanced at Tonks, who appeared to have an expression of wonder permanently etched upon her face. And it was an amazing thing, that they had gone from a distinct hopelessness, to what he hoped would be success in the space of a few hours. They still had to swear the oaths and discover the knowledge, but that was, he hoped, a mere formality.

"Please tell us what we must do then," said Remus, looking back at the elders. "Then anything you can share with us will help in the struggle with the dark lord."

"You will swear the oaths," Mohammed replied, "but you will need to search for yourself, though we can assign a member of the library's staff to assist you. You must understand that the information you seek is… distasteful. Creating a Horcrux requires a person to commit terrible acts. Though we know this, we do not study the specifics—we merely preserve the knowledge in case it is required.

"I will inform you of one thing that is known," Mohammed continued. "While the specifics are unknown to me, I can tell you that there is no known way to remove a Horcrux. You will find the knowledge necessary to identify a Horcrux, but the only way to deal with one is to destroy it."

Feeling his spirits plummeting, Remus nodded in acceptance, hopeful that the man might be wrong. Mohammed had admitted himself that he had not studied Horcruxes, after all, and there might be works in the collection which would refute his statement. At least he hoped there was, or this journey could end up being for nothing.

"Very well. Let's get these oaths out of the way so that we can begin."

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Continued thanks to everyone still reading reviewing, or merely just skimming my little addition to this site.

2. Kudos to Fatman8theNation who was the only one to come close to figuring out what the society is. Even so, they are not Caesar's people, but even older than that. You'll find out more when the true nature of Horcruxes is revealed. It's coming, but a lot happens between now and then.

3. A lot of people mentioned the Medjai (sp?) as a popular choice for the society. I've actually never seen the Mummy movies, so I know nothing about them. Additionally, this is certainly _not_ a crossover.

4. Finally, for anyone interested, I have begun the clean up of previous chapters. I'm through the first two now, and am proceeding at the same pace as new posting, or a chapter every two weeks. Thanks to Texas Muggle for the assist in going through the chapters and pointing out any errors.


	45. Chapter 44 – Ministerial Maneuvers

**Previously: **The action at the Ministry is revealed in the Daily Prophet. Malfoy plots revenge. Harry has a long discussion with his friends, where he explains what they were doing. He agrees to include them as much as possible in the future. Remus and Tonks are taken before the secret society, and learn that the magical section of the Great Library of Alexandria still exists. Now, the society exists to remove dangerous magics from the world, and also to preserve knowledge in case it is ever needed. They agree to allow Remus access so that he can learn of Horcruxes.

* * *

**Chapter 44 – Ministerial Maneuvers**

Two days following Harry's incursion into the Hall of Prophecy, Albus Dumbledore called a special session of the Wizengamot for the purpose of electing a new Minister for Magic of Britain.

It was an auspicious occasion, regardless of the fact that it was necessary due to the death of the previous Minister, and that fact was reflected as Albus glanced around the room. In general, though the Wizengamot was the legislative body for the entire society, attendance at its meetings could be somewhat lackadaisical. Today, however, the members seemed to be taking the event rather seriously, as the chamber was packed—Albus expected that when role call was completed, it would reveal that only a handful of the seats would not be represented.

Of course, Albus did not fool himself that the sole reason for such attention was due to the conscience and civic duty of its members. The Wizengamot was largely corrupt and somewhat ineffectual as a legislative body, its members more interested in their own agendas than the common good, and with Fudge as Minister, it had fallen even further as it had been known that he could be bought for a price. No, the interest in today's proceedings were again largely due to self-interest, whether it was from the supremacist desire to elect one of their own, the rank and file member's desire to have their agendas pushed forward by a compliant Minister, or the desire simply to be closer—or perhaps even obtain for oneself—a higher level of personal power. There were those, of course, who were solely concerned with electing a Minister who would fight back against Voldemort; most members who did not support him—overtly or covertly—would at least have this in the back of their minds. Dark lords were, after all, bad for business.

This final factor was the reason why Albus was certain that he had the votes to elect Amelia Bones. Certainly there were those who would support a candidate of Voldemort's choosing, someone likely of Lucius Malfoy's ilk. Conversely, there were those who shared similar goals and ideals as Albus himself; those members could be counted on to vote for the candidate who best supported their philosophical ideals, and Amelia was certainly one of them. The rest, however, would ultimately vote for her because she was a respected Pureblood and known to be very competent. If they needed a push, they would only need to be reminded of the perils of supporting a Voldemort lackey, and the hit their wealth would take if Voldemort should come into power. Money was a compelling motivator.

When the appointed time arrived, Albus stood and rapped his gavel on the desk in front of him, watching as the assembled members quieted.

"Esteemed members of the Wizengamot," he began, "I now call this emergency session into order." Albus waited until the murmurs died down, before he once again addressed the assembly. "It is with a heavy heart that I have called us into session today, as the passing of our Minister is a grievous tragedy. However, given the now acknowledged return of Voldemort, it is imperative that we now choose a new Minister immediately, so that we may oppose him effectively."

Albus almost smiled at the flinches which met the use of the dark lord's name. "You had all better become used to hearing that name," he chided. "It is only a name, and an alias at that, and to refuse to use a man's name only give him a power he does not possess."

"That's all very well and good," a man's voice interrupted Dumbledore's speech. Peering up toward the sound of the voice, Albus noted that it had been Antonius Selwyn, the head of a minor house and an unconfirmed Death Eater from the first war who had spoken. Selwyn was one of those who had claimed Imperius after Voldemort's first fall, and had subsequently been able to avoid prosecution, though in his case it had been a near thing. He was also one who bore careful watching.

"What I would like to know is why Harry Potter is not now in custody."

Albus was somewhat nonplused—this was certainly not a tactic he would have expected.

In the front row, however, Sirius did not appear to be taken aback. He was in fact watching Selwyn intently, though with perhaps a trace of contempt. It was the first Wizengamot meeting he had attended after his exoneration, now that he had been able to take up the mantle of his house's leadership.

"For what?" Sirius asked bluntly.

"We wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for the whelp," the Death Eater snapped. "It was Potter's actions which led to the death of the Minister."

"Oh, Harry's wand fired the curse that killed Minister Fudge? I'm surprised that you've come to that conclusion, Selwyn. I had thought the coverage of the Prophet had been clear about _who_ killed the Minister."

"You've ignored my statement," Selwyn shot back. "I never claimed that Potter killed the Minister. I only said that it was his actions which led to it. He needs to bear some of the fault for this."

"One can only be responsible for their own actions," Albus broke in. "Harry did not fire the curse and cannot be held accountable for Minister Fudge's death."

Selwyn sneered back at him. "Once again protecting your favorite, are you Dumbledore?"

"It has nothing to do with my relationship with the boy," Dumbledore responded, keeping his tone mild. "If I invite you to dinner at my house, and you choke on a chicken bone and die, did I kill you? To suggest that I did is ludicrous, as is the suggestion that Harry killed Minister Fudge."

"The fact still remains—" Selwyn began to bluster before Madam Bones cut him off.

"Mr. Selwyn, I believe that I can answer your question. Do you agree that I have the authority and knowledge in such matters?" At Selwyn's grudging nod, she continued, "Mr. Potter's actions on the night in question were indeed irregular. However, he committed no acts of a criminal nature. He merely entered the Ministry, through the proper entrance, giving his proper identity, and stating the reason for his visit. He the proceeded with his companions down to the Hall of Prophecy and retrieved the orb pertaining to him as is his right. The fact that he did it in the middle of the night is essentially irrelevant.

"Once he had his own prophecy in his possession he left the Hall, where he was confronted by several of Voldemort's followers, who, if I remember correctly, are all quite close colleagues of yours." A raised eyebrow accompanied her statement, but Selwyn refused to respond to her jibe. He merely stared at her. his expression stony with displeasure.

"These men demanded he hand over the orb, which he rightly refused, and was then assisted by his godfather and others, among whom numbered members of my own department. It was Lucius Malfoy who fired the first curse. And then once he had made his way to the atrium, he was confronted by the dark lord himself, and protected by the Chief Warlock. It was Voldemort's curse which killed the Minister. As the Chief Warlock has already explained, no culpability can be attached to Mr. Potter for the Minister's death. Minister Fudge arrived of his own volition and did not take the proper precaution against aggression by one who is known to have no compunction over killing others.

"Do you have any further objections?"

Angrily, Selwyn shook his head, though he did not respond verbally.

"In that case, I believe the floor is yours, Chief Warlock," Madam Bones said while taking her seat.

Albus paused for a moment as he considered Selwyn's objection. He could not believe that Voldemort had pinned his hopes on so small an offensive as this, one which had little to no chance of success and would not even affect the choosing of a new Minister regardless. No, Selwyn must have been acting on his own and though the man was rather determined, he was not exactly a towering example of intellect. Perhaps he actually believed he could have had Harry thrown in prison for being in the Ministry that night. He was far simpler than Albus had thought if he had truly expected it.

"Thank you, Madam Bones." Albus paused and looked out over the assembly. "As I was saying, the tragic events of two nights ago have necessitated the choosing of a new Minister. However, as the situation is serious, I move that we elect and swear in a new Minister immediately."

"I second the motion," said Madam Longbottom before anyone else could speak up.

A burst of conversation arose in the room and Albus glanced around, noting the general reception of the idea. Most there seemed to understand why this was a priority and were at least willing to listen, though he noted a few in the chamber who were watching him, no doubt wondering what his strategy would be.

"Hem, hem," a girlish voice broke through the tumult, and Albus turned and looked up at the face of Madam Umbridge with some distaste. She was dressed as usual in her lurid pink robes, and she had apparently recovered from her dismissal from her Hogwarts and Ministry positions. Though Albus would have preferred to have her thrown from this chamber permanently, she had merely been sacked, and not charged with anything, and as she was the most senior claimant to the old Morris seat, he could not bar her. In actuality, she descended from a cadet branch of the house, having been elevated to her current position due to the family's death at the hands of Death Eaters in the first war with Voldemort. Whether they had merely been a target, or had been Death Eaters who had displeased the dark lord had never been proven and the bodies had been in no position to be examined for dark marks, as the Death Eaters had used their typical tactic of sealing the house, cutting off the Floor and laying anti-apparition wards, and burning it with the occupants trapped inside.

"It _is_ necessary to appoint a minister quickly, but it is of equal importance that we choose carefully. The Minister must be someone who espouses our society's ideals and will champion our way of life.

Albus almost snorted at her thinly veiled words. There was no doubt in his mind that she wished to be Minister herself, so that she may "champion" the rights and privileges of all Purebloods, and foment bigotry and intolerance, as was her wont. There was an equal lack of doubt that she had no chance whatsoever of being elected, as Albus could not think of two people in this chamber who would support her—one to nominate, and the other to second—let alone that she would garner the support of the majority. No, she would almost certainly support the candidate of the Pureblood bloc, and try to insinuate herself with whomever that person turned out to be in order to raise her fortunes, as was her usual strategy in such situations.

"I agree with Madam Umbridge completely," Sirius stated. He raised a mocking eyebrow at Umbridge as he continued. "The new Minister must not only uphold the rights of citizens and protect our way of life, but also must be willing to take unpopular stances to propel us forward to becoming a greater society. Equally as important, the new Minister must also be prepared to lead us against the darkness that is now knocking at our door. But in order to have every chance of doing so, they must be sworn in immediately. Voldemort will not wait for us."

Bowing his head in Sirius's direction, Albus glanced up at Madam Umbridge, as the former Defense Professor—and he used that term _very_ loosely!—glared down at the current occupant of that position with some fury. She was very well aware of the fact that though Sirius's words appeared on the surface to be broadly supporting her own, the sentiments behind the statements were very different. Sirius had managed, in his usually irrepressible way, to insult her while appearing to abide by the rules of conduct enforced in the Wizengamot chambers between members. And it appeared as though few had misunderstood the exchange.

"I agree with Madam Longbottom and Mr. Black as well," Tiberius Ogden, one of the elder statesmen of the Wizengamot, said in a loud voice. "The new Minister must take up their role immediately."

"So it has been motioned," Albus intoned. "I believe that to all right-thinking witches and wizards, this is only a prudent course of action. Shall we accept this measure as passed by acclamation, or are there any here who believe we should take a formal vote?"

Albus looked out over the assembly, noting the reactions to his suggestion. There were more than a few who appeared to be upset at this motion, but they were firmly in the minority, as most of the Wizengamot appeared to agree. There were a few Albus thought might protest, but they ultimately kept their silence, allowing the motion to pass. It was curious—perhaps Voldemort had intended to paralyze the Wizengamot as long as possible in order to delay any actions the new Minister might ultimately take against him. If so, it was doomed to failure.

"Very well, let the records show that it is so proclaimed.

"We shall now proceed," Albus continued. "We will take nominations for the post of Minister, and then open up the floor for debate—a member must be nominated and have their nomination seconded to receive consideration. Then we will cast our votes to elect the new Minister before the completion of this session. The wizard or witch with a simple majority will become the next Minister. In the event there are more than two candidates and neither reaches a majority, then the two candidates with the most votes will continue to the next round of voting where the one with the most votes will be declared the winner. Does anyone in this body wish to receive clarification, or protest what is proposed?"

When no one raised their wand, Albus nodded. "I now open the floor to those wishing to nominate a candidate."

Immediately upon Albus completing his statement, Madam Umbridge stood and raised her wand. "I nominate Alaric Morgan to the position of Minister for Magic."

"Seconded," Rosier, another member with suspected connections to Voldemort—including a known Death Eater son—said in a gruff voice.

Nodding his head as the scribe took down the man's name, Albus looked up at the man who had just been nominated, noting that Voldemort had cast his die. Morgan was a tall, aristocratic man with long black hair tied at the back of his neck and startling blue eyes. He was also a Pureblood from a long and prestigious line and, though the man had not been a Death Eater in the previous war as far as Albus was aware, his ideals certainly fit in with Voldemort's crowd. He was a sympathizer at the very least, if not an active financial supporter. Of course, having been nominated for the Minister's seat, he may very well be a Death Eater by now as well.

Sirius then stood up and, with his customary flourish, raised his wand. "I nominate Amelia Bones for Minister for Magic."

The irony of the situation was not lost upon anyone in the chamber; a Black—the epitome of a historically dark family—had just nominated Madam Bones—a member of a family who had been light for centuries—to be the Minister. It had been calculated for that very purposed, in actuality. The symbolic significance of a traditionally dark family supporting one of their erstwhile enemies was not to be underestimated, regardless of the fact that Sirius had never supported his family's ideals.

A few speculative glances were cast in Madam Bones's direction, many clearly wondering if this had been a previously determined strategy, but Amelia was as cool and calm as she usually was. Of more immediate interest to Albus were the reactions of the families who had not taken a side in the conflict—the neutrals and some of the others who were cautious of their allegiance. The nominal spokesman of the neutrals, David Greengrass, was stoic, not betraying his reaction to what was occurring in front of him. The Greengrass vote, as well as many of his peers, had already been sewn up, but there were still many others who would not be certain to do likewise.

Of equal importance was the protection of those who would support Amelia. True, the voting would be anonymous and thus, no one would know who each of the members had voted for, unless they revealed it themselves. However, if one could perform simple additon, it would quickly become apparent to all just how the voting had gone, unless it was extraordinarily close in the end. There was a bloc who would support Amelia, and a block who would support Alaric—if the middle vote largely broke for one or another of the candidates, it would be obvious. Preparations had already been made—those families who had agreed to support them, both politically and economically, had been prepared to leave their homes at a moment's notice, and move to the various safe houses the Order had been setting up around the country. Albus suspected that with this opening political move, Voldemort's response would be swift and savage.

From there, two others were nominated for the post—a relatively new and firmly neutral member by the name of Reginald Posey, and John Stark, who was a venerable Pureblood whose family had been prominent in British magical society for centuries. Posey posed no threat and Stark, though he did belong to an older family, was generally more moderate in his leanings. Albus did not think he would get many votes regardless.

"Very well," Albus said, once the chamber had quieted and it was clear that there were to be no further nominations. "Each of the candidates will stand and confirm that they accept their nomination."

The first three did so with minimum fanfare, and few words, as was the custom. However, when John Stark stood and surveyed the room in his customary imperious manner, he responded in a completely different manner.

"Members of the Wizengamot," he began, "I thank you for your consideration this day, and for the honor of being presented for consideration to be the next Minister. It is indeed a responsibility and a difficult one which the next Minister will be placed in, for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named must be opposed for the good of our society.

"However, I cannot in good conscience accept this nomination." A burst of hushed conversation broke out over the room. A candidate refusing a nomination was not an unheard of event, but _it was_ unusual enough to be noteworthy.

"Members, I am aware of my strengths and weaknesses, and though I believe that I would be credible as Minister, I am not suited to lead in the prosecution of a war. Of the candidates who have been nominated, there is only one who is qualified to lead us against the stain of the Dark Lord. I hereby remove my name from consideration for the post of Minister for Magic, and give my support to Amelia Bones. I would urge all of those who would have supported me, to instead vote for Madam Bones."

Now _that_ was by and large unheard of. As Albus considered the ramifications of Stark's actions, he realized that he could not have scripted it any better if he had come up with the idea himself. He noting the murmured conversations which were erupting throughout the room. It was clear that Stark had made an impression upon the body, and if the slightly smug look on the man's face was anything to go by, Albus would almost suspect that he had planned it that way himself. He had been a Ravenclaw during his time at Hogwarts, but if he had planned this, it was a move worthy of any Slytherin.

"Thank you all for your words this day," Albus said, standing once again. He continued once the sound of voices died down. "And thank you to Mr. Stark. It takes an honest man to step aside for the good of us all."

Stark inclined his head.

"Now, in accordance with our traditions, I hereby open up the floor to those who wish to make a statement for one of the candidates. Please keep in mind that the debate is to be kept civil and that no overt statements of criticism are to be leveled against any of the candidates."

Thus began the next two hours of debate, in which many things were said, but few were of the kind of substance which was required for a decision of this magnitude. The support for Amelia was largely centered around her experience as the head of the DMLE, though something was also made of her competence, and the fact that she was a citizen of good standing—of course, any who were paying attention recognized that "citizen of good standing" was actually a euphemism for "acceptably Pureblood" to many of the members. For Alaric Morgan, much of the discussion centered on his family's long history and his support for protecting their way of life. Unsurprisingly, little was said about his ability to fight the forces of Voldemort.

Also, Albus could easily determine that while only a small portion of the members in the chamber actually spoke, many more who did spoke on behalf of Madam Bones, than did for Mr. Morgan. There were very few who spoke in support of Mr. Posey at all. As the comments progressed, it became more and more clear that the support seemed to be falling in favor of Madam Bones, and while Alaric Morgan was stoic and quiet, Madam Umbridge's face began to take on an unhealthy hue in her anger.

Finally, when she could be silent no longer, she stood and began a long, rambling rant, in which she demanded, pleaded and cajoled the members to accept her candidate, touching on how he would clean up their society and usher them forward into a new era of prosperity. Of course, her words were little more than a diatribe in which she spouted her usual disdain for anything not Pureblood and her prejudices and hatreds were on display for all to see.

When she finally rambled down to a close and took her seat, Albus glanced about the room. It was clear that there was little else to be said.

"Thank you Madam Umbridge for your… interesting statements," Albus said as he stood. "It is clear to everyone in this chamber just what your position is and, I daresay, your time in Hogwarts made it clear to anyone who had not been listening."

He looked out over the assembled Wizengamot. "As tradition states, I will not, as Chief Warlock, make a statement in favor or against, any of the candidates who have been put forward today. I would, however, caution you all to remember not only the qualifications that each of these candidates possesses, but also their positions, and who nominated them. Those facts will tell you how they will likely stand on most of the issues which face us."

It was obvious to most just exactly the message Albus had been trying to convey. Given Madam Umbridge's actions at Hogwarts, not to mention the things she was suspected of doing as Undersecretary to the previous Minister, no one in their right mind should ever vote for a candidate she had personally endorsed. This was also apparent to the woman herself, if the poisonous glare she directed at Albus was any indication.

In the end, Madam Bones was elected by quite a large margin.

* * *

After the meeting had adjourned, Amelia Bones sat in her new office, thinking about the twists and turns of life. The office was far more opulent than the more utilitarian space she had preferred as Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, even with Fudge's personal effects having been removed and returned to his widow that morning. It was large and spacious, and with all of the former occupant's items now gone, it appeared to be more elegant and comfortable than it ever had before. It even boasted a large window, which took up most of the wall behind the desk. The window was charmed to show an outside view of the sky, high above the underground building, where she could see birds darting here and there, and the bright sunlight of a fine spring morning. She supposed she must become used to the trappings of the position—appearances must be maintained, after all.

There was much to do. Indeed, Amelia suspected that the first months of her administration would be hectic, if the pace ever slowed at all. She doubted it would until Voldemort was finally defeated. Until that eventuality, however, Amelia could imagine that her days would be long and that there would be far more things to be done than time to accomplish them.

Still, it was good to be busy. Under Fudge she had often lamented the manner in which her hands were tied and how he would not allow the budget or the other resources necessary to effectively oppose the Death Eaters. That would all change; the new Director would find that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was her primary concern and as such, the new budgets that she meant to push through would reflect that fact. This was not a matter to brush off for the next generation to handle, as had already happened once. They would take decisive action to end the threat.

A knock sounded at her door, and her secretary poked her head in once she had given her assent. "The Chief Warlock and the French Ambassador are here to see you, Madam."

"Please send them in," Amelia responded. "And have Rufus Scrimgeour and Kinglsey Shacklebolt to join us in thirty minutes."

"Yes, Minister."

A few moments later, the two men entered the room and, upon Amelia's request, sat down in the chairs facing her desk. Albus smiled for a moment and Amelia looked at him with a questioning glance.

"Is something amusing you, Albus?"

The elderly wizard chuckled as he flicked his wand, transfiguring the straight and rather severe, high-backed chair in which he sat into a rather large, stuffed chair. He settled back into it with a smile and said, "I was just thinking about how a generation of recalcitrant Gryffindors must have felt going into Minerva's office for a tongue-lashing. I believe your chairs are every bit as uncomfortable as hers."

Amelia smiled. "The chairs fit the position and helped to emphasized the severity of the situation during the occasions when I had to discipline members of my staff. I suppose I shall have to reconsider that now."

"And in that vein, I would like to congratulate you on your election on behalf of the French magical government," Jean-Sebastian spoke up.

Amelia refrained from scowling at the ambassador. "As you are well aware, I was most reluctant to accept this, so I will ignore that comment, Ambassador Delacour."

"I understand that," Jean-Sebastian returned with a smile. "However, I believe we all know that your election was for the best."

Amelia grunted, not particularly wishing to continue on with that line of discussion. Jean-Sebastian, apparently sensing her reluctance, moved on to another topic.

"Minister Bones, as you are aware, the French Ministry is very concerned with the threat of Voldemort. I am prepared to provide you with the assurance of my government's wholehearted support and our willingness to stand with our British friends in the coming struggle."

Amelia gazed at him. The British history with the French was, much in common with their Muggle counterparts, a somewhat stormy and tumultuous one, and as the magical cooperation during what the Muggles called World War II had been almost nonexistent, they had not even that struggle in common. The British did not trust the French, to be brutally honest, and Amelia was well aware that the sentiment ran both ways.

Jean-Sebastian's support for Harry Potter, however, could not be dismissed and though Amelia could not be certain, she suspected that Jean-Sebastian had discussed his support with the French Minister before declaring himself, no doubt with this eventuality in mind. Furthermore, Jean-Sebastian himself had a reputation for being an honorable man, which Amelia already knew based on her interactions with him, and she also knew that the French Minister, while she did not know him personally, was well regarded in international circles as a man of action. If these men indicated their willingness to assist, then Amelia had little doubt that they were entirely in earnest.

"Minister Bones," the ambassador began, apparently in response to her long silence, "it is true that our countries have been at odds more often than not, but I assure you that we are quite serious about standing with you. Although I certainly felt that I owed Harry a debt when I decided to help him, you should also know that I also took a much longer view of the situation.

"To be quite frank, we both know that Voldemort will never be content to stop at the English Channel if he should manage to subjugate magical Britain. I suspect that his ambitions include a stealthy take over of the Muggle government, and once that is accomplished, I do not doubt that he will turn his eyes toward my home. It is imperative that he be stopped, and I believe that standing with you now will be much more effective and save many more French lives than if we ignore the problem until it is staring us in the face. I assure you that the French Minster concurs."

Amelia nodded. "I agree completely with your assessment, Ambassador and I thank you for your assurances." Leaning back in her chair, Amelia once again peered at Jean-Sebastian with some speculation. "Just exactly how far are you willing to go with your offer of support?"

"As far as necessary to be certain that Voldemort is defeated," was Jean-Sebastian's even reply. "Of course, anything that I say here will need to be ratified by the Minister. He has given me his own commitment that he has the authority of our National Assembly to promise almost any level of assistance, including the wands of French Aurors, if necessary."

Nodding slowly, Amelia turned to look at the Chief Warlock. "Do you have anything to add, Albus?"

"Only that it is a very generous offer that we would do well to consider carefully."

"I agree," Amelia said with a tight nod. "I believe we should continue to discuss this at a later date. At the present time I can tell you that I consider this a British problem, but I must admit that our estimates of Voldemort's strength are very imprecise. Even so, a force of French wands could transform a potentially difficult battle into a decisive one. We will need to discuss this at a later date and decide how best to proceed."

Jean-Sebastian inclined his head while Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair. "If I might make a suggestion?" At Amelia's nod ne continued, "It would be best to conduct these negotiations in secret. A force of French Aurors showing up to battle unannounced would be far more effective than if they were arrayed in the same lines as our forces."

"Agreed," Amelia said, and she sat back in her seat.

Within a few moments, the secretary once again stuck her head in the doorway and shortly thereafter, Scrimgeour and Shacklebolt stepped into the office, each taking one of the remaining chairs.

"I didn't know you were graduating to more comfortable chairs," Shacklebolt said with a grin and a nod at Albus's chair.

Dumbledore merely smiled smugly and raised an eyebrow in Amelia's direction. She waved him off. "I suppose visiting foreign dignitaries and Department Heads will require something a little more comfortable than Auror recruits," she said somewhat dismissively.

"Or you could keep them and make your Department Heads sweat a little," Scrimgeour intoned with just a hint of a smile. "Merlin knows that this place could use a little shaking up."

Though Amelia could not agree more, she decided that there were other, more pressing matters which demanded immediate attention. "The reason I called you both in here is to deal with the disposition of the DMLE with my change in positions." Both men inclined their heads; clearly they had both anticipated this. "Rufus, I would like you to take over the department. Shack, you will take over as Head Auror."

The two men glanced in each other's direction, and it was Shacklebolt who hesitantly spoke up. "With all due respect, Minister, wouldn't Auror Moody be a better choice for Head Auror at the very least?"

Amelia barked a laugh. "Surely you know Alastor better than that, Kingsley. He's much more interested in bringing in dark wizards—not necessarily all in one piece—than being stuck behind a desk. He was only Head Auror for a brief time before I replaced him, and only because I was not ready for the position. If I asked him, I'm sure his response would be unsuitable for polite company."

They all laughed, and Albus said, "Having known Alastor for many years, I do not doubt that you are completely correct, Amelia."

Kingsley nodded ruefully and both men readily agreed to accept their new posts. Amelia, however, was not finished.

"I want you both to understand," she continued, fixing them with a serious stare, "that I have not made this decision merely because you are the senior members of the department. I made it because I consider you the best candidates to take over your respective positions, and because I know you both have the ability and familiarity with each other to work effectively. I would expect that the previously mentioned Auror Moody will have plenty to say which will help you both adjust to your new positions.

"The most important matter we face is, of course, the threat of Voldemort." Amelia scowled when both men flinched—Shacklebolt only slightly due, she suspected to his membership in Dumbledore's group, which was of course supposed to be a secret—of the dark wizard's name. "As our illustrious Headmaster would say, the fear to speak a made-up name is rather irrational, don't you think?"

Though her tone was mild, both men caught the hint. "I suppose it is," Scrimgeour replied with a slight grimace.

Amelia sat back and gazed at the four men sitting in front of her desk. "The most immediately pressing matter is to interrogate those captured in the Department of Mysteries. Now that we have Wizengamot approval for the use of Veritaserum to obtain the truth, I suggest we question them and bring them up on charges quickly to prevent Voldemort from doing anything to affect their release."

The other men in the room quickly agreed to Amelia's assessment, and she leaned back in her chair and thought of the events of the morning after her election. The bill had not passed easily, but it finally had, and she was now able to fight back against the Death Eaters in the manner which would do them the most damage.

* * *

"We have one final piece of business to cover before we adjourn for today," Albus was saying. Though Amelia knew what he was about to propose she was feeling a little shell-shocked by the fact that she had just been elected to the Minister's office, a position to which she had never aspired.

Regardless, it had happened and she had accepted it, and Amelia knew that it was time to move on. The passing of this next proposal was important, and Albus would need her support to pull it off.

"As you will see on the parchment which the clerks are now distributing, we are proposing changes to the existing laws, with respect to how Death Eaters and those suspected of allying with Voldemort are handled. Sirius Black, I believe that you are the member bringing forth this proposal. Will you please stand and explain it to the members of the Wizengamot?"

Sirius stood and gazed about the chamber in a manner which was unusually sober for the usually ebullient man. For the most part, the members of the chamber were paying him somewhat little attention—most were instead focused on the parchments in front of them, and if the expressions were anything to go by, many were not exactly pleased with what they were reading.

"Chief Warlock," Sirius began, "as you are aware, the return of the one styling himself Lord Voldemort has now been proven to have returned to Britain. Though I am certain that many in this chamber would like to have the question of his whereabouts for the past fifteen years answered, it seems prudent that we instead turn our attention to the subject of ensuring that his forces do not gain a greater foothold than they already have, and ensuring that his efforts are turned back with as little bloodshed as possible.

"Therefore, I propose that we strike back against him and his followers through lawful means, but also with the appropriate level of force. I propose that we immediately question all suspected Death Eaters currently in custody with the use of Veritaserum to establish not only their own guilt, but also to bring them to trial expeditiously and punish them for their actions.

"In addition, I motion that we give full Wizengamot authority for the use of Veritaserum in the case of all future suspected Death Eaters until Voldemort is finally defeated once and for all."

With that, Sirius once again resumed his seat. Amelia glanced about the chamber, trying to get a sense of how the Wizengamot as a whole was reacting to the proposal. It had been a risk to present this, as there would undoubtedly be much division and opposition to the proposal, but had ultimately decided that right after her election—which they, of course, hoped would be successful—would be their best chance of passing it.

At last, Alaric Morgan, erstwhile candidate for the Minister's position, stood and motioned that he wished to speak, prompting Albus to motion for him to speak.

"Some of these men are, of course, escaped prisoners and as such, should be returned to Azkaban where they belong. As for the rest, there are many prominent members of society among their numbers. Surely Veritaserum is not necessary."

It was a powerful argument for many in the Wizengamot, in one stroke reminding the members of the fact that the Malfoys and others were considered old and respectable families, while at the same time inferring to the fact that should they be given Veritaserum, it could potentially set a precedent which would see them eventually being subjected to the truth agent themselves. It was a weak argument at best, but at the same time would appeal to those who would consider themselves too important to be questioned in such a manner.

"What is our friend Lucius claiming the Imperius again?" Sirius's lazy voice broke out over the chamber, and setting off a further round of murmurs as the two combatants squared off, Morgan still standing and glaring down at Sirius who was himself reclining his chair in an arrogant pose.

"I do not pretend to know exactly what happened that night, Black, nor do I understand what Lucius was doing at the Ministry."

"Oh, I believe I can tell you exactly what he was doing here," Sirius replied.

"I suppose you think you can," Morgan replied with a sneer, while taking his seat. "But then again that brings up the question of what _you_ were doing there yourself, with your… associates."

"What I was doing there is a matter of public record and exactly as it seems, and in contrast to your buddy Lucius, I am fully prepared to submit to Veritaserum willingly to prove what I have claimed." Sirius fell silent for a moment while a sly expression fell over his face. "You know, Morgan, I believe that there may be something wrong with your friend Malfoy."

Though Morgan's brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed, he said nothing, apparently deciding that Sirius's words did not merit a response.

"He seems to have a rather weak will," Sirius continued, his eyes fixed on Morgan, though they were half lidded. "He is constantly being put under the Imperius Curse in order for Voldemort to force him to heinous acts which he would never consider if he were in his right mind. I wonder how long it takes old Lucius to throw the curse off. Several months do you think? Otherwise, it would be rather onerous for old Voldy to be continually reapplying it. The poor old Dark Lord would tire himself out quickly if that were the case."

Morgan's nostrils flared—along with several others who were suspected of being Death Eaters—and he appeared to be on the verge of replying to Sirius's irreverent statements. But he imperiously turned away from Sirius and looked out over the chamber. "The point is—"

"The point is that these men ambushed three students in the Ministry and fired curses at them with the clear intent of harming them," Sirius snapped, the playful Marauder now gone in favor of a much more severe man. It was a side of Sirius Black that Amelia had rarely seen, though she could certainly not claim a close acquaintance with him. "Malfoy and the others can claim Imperius if they like. Veritaserum will soon establish the truth of the matter." He then smirked at Morgan and continued, "Consider it Lucius's chance to exonerate him once and for all."

"I believe that most of us can agree that Veritaserum is called for in this instance," a new voice spoke up. Amelia identified David Toulson as the speaker, a man from an older family who supported Pureblood ideals, but not with the fanatical fervor—not to mention propensity toward enforcing that viewpoint with violence—that those such as Malfoy routinely did. "However, I must admit that I am troubled over this suggestion of carte blanche in the use of Veritaserum."

"Only when the ones being questioned are suspected of being Death Eaters," Sirius broke in.

Toulson inclined his head. "I understand. I merely wish to ensure that this power you propose we give the DMLE is not abused. There must be checks against such abuse."

"I do not disagree," Amelia spoke up. "The reason for this measure is to ensure the Ministry is able to fight against the threat of Voldemort effectively and quickly."

"And what do you propose to do with those who are proven to be Death Eaters?"

"They will be tried and sentenced the same way that anyone else would be," Amelia responded evenly. "Either in front of the full Wizengamot, or a tribunal, whichever we deem would be more effective."

"The full Wizengamot would be my preference," Sirius interjected. It was an effective comment, Amelia decided, considering his history with illegal tribunals.

"That is understandable," Toulson replied with a look of sympathy. "In that case, it seems like a reasonable request. I suggest that we all agree and move on to other business."

* * *

The measure was passed soon after, though there was still a certain amount of discussion and acrimony to be dealt with. The vote was closer than her election had been and some members of the Wizengamot appeared to wonder if they were getting what they had bargained for by electing her. It was all too late, of course, and Amelia did not suppose that most would seriously have supported a man such as Morgan, even if they had known of the secondary bill which was to be proposed after the election.

"The interrogations are to be done soon, I suppose?" Scrimgeour's voice interrupted Amelia's thoughts.

"Immediately," Amelia confirmed. "This very day, in fact.

"In that case, I should depart," Jean-Sebastian said, standing.

"I would appreciate your attendance, Ambassador," Amelia said quickly. "I believe that first hand knowledge of these matters would be of benefit and allow you to pass the information on to the French Minister more effectively."

Jean-Sebastian appeared as though he would decline, but after a moment he nodded. It was soon after that they made thier way down to the cells to begin the interrogations.

It was perhaps unsurprising the things they learned from the Death Eaters, though in many instances it was sickening. The fact that these men had committed such despicable deeds in the service of their mad lord told Amelia that their escape from justice was a travesty of enormous proportions.

It would not continue. These men would be convicted—Amelia was determined. And they would pay the price for their actions.

* * *

"Well, that's it then. Shall we head back?"

Hermione turned and looked at her companion with a smile, gesturing back the way they had come. They turned as one and Harry, after grasping Hermione's hand in his own, began making his way back toward Gryffindor tower.

It was late—nearing midnight, unless Hermione missed her guess—and as tonight had been their scheduled turn to patrol the castle, they found themselves at the opposite end from their destination, a location which actually not far from the Slytherin dungeons. It would be a walk of almost ten minutes to return to their common room. On some occasions they used the Marauder's Map when patrolling, as it made it easier for them to find students wandering the halls when they should not be, or dating couples ensconced in broom closets. They had decided that they could do very well without it that night.

As they progressed through the hallways, Hermione glanced at Harry surreptitiously, noting his serious countenance, and the way he constantly watched the hallways, alert for any movement, or anything which was not as it should be. This was, of course, in part to the experiences which had defined his time at Hogwarts—such events would make anyone wary and eager to ensure that no surprises emerged from the hallways through which they traversed. But it was also in part due to the fact that Harry had grown and matured much throughout the course of the year. He was more responsible now; more certain of himself and more likely to buckle down and get the job done, rather than goof off as he had done in previous years. This manifest itself mostly in his schoolwork, but was also equally obvious in the way he approached almost any task—especially those he considered unpleasant—and the way he would often take charge. He had within him the capability of being a gifted leader and it was only his upbringing which had suppressed such a trait. But now with the support of Sirius and the Delacours, not to mention the trust that the headmaster had shown in him of late, he was truly blossoming into the young man he had always been meant to be.

Hermione was captivated by the new Harry, to say the least. He was smart and decisive, caring and considerate, and even though he had a betrothed and a girlfriend—as she considered herself—neither was ever made to feel left out in favor of the other. Or at least Hermione herself had never felt that way, and she suspected that Fleur had no complaints to voice either. If Harry of that previous summer—shy, yet sweet and determined—had been attractive, he was now irresistible. She was glad that Fleur had helped initiate this relationship between them. She imagined that she would now be in the depths of despair knowing what she could not have, if the French witch had not been so selfless.

"Hermione," Harry spoke up, turning to look at her as they continued down the corridor. Hermione turned to face him, noting the expression of concern he was directing at her. "Have you noticed how Malfoy's behaved lately?"

"Isn't he like he always is?" Hermione replied with an arched eyebrow.

"To a certain extent, yes." Harry looked at her expectantly, and Hermione sighed and squeezed his hand affectionately.

"Yes, I've noticed he's been fixated on me."

She stopped speaking and they continued on down the corridor. She _had_ noticed the ponce's murderous gaze on her. Ever since their return and the subsequent revelation of what they had done that night, she had noticed that now his glare had been upon her more often than on Harry or any of their other friends.

It made her nervous, to be honest. Draco Malfoy had always been a little ineffectual—more impressed with his own status as a Pureblood, and more confident in his own prowess than he truly had a right to be. He was at best an indifferent student, and certainly did not wield the magical power that Harry possessed, nor was he as strong as she was, she suspected, though her victorious encounters with the boy in the past might be as much due to her knowledge and determination as with any advantage in pure magical strength.

But this year, the boy had been different. He still had a big head and had much more confidence in himself than was warranted, but it was more his attitude which had changed. Voldemort's return appeared to have emboldened him, to the point where now Hermione began to wonder whether the ferret was turning into a rabid dog. There was something in his eyes when he glared at her which frightened her. In past years she had certainly received the message that he did not think she belonged here, and that he considered her to be less than the dirt which clung to his shoes. Now, however, she began to suspect that if he had the opportunity, that she would meet an ignoble death at his hand. Or maybe at the hands of the Death Eaters or their master.

The very thought of it cause a shiver to run up her spine—the likely fate that awaited her if she ever fell into the hands of the Death Eaters was too horrible to imagine. And it would be doubly worse for her than for any other Muggleborn, due to her close association with Harry.

Harry halted and turned a worried gaze on her. "Does he seem somehow… different now?"

"Like he's emboldened by Voldemort's return?" Hermione asked archly.

Harry nodded and she sighed. "His expression makes me uncomfortable."

Turning abruptly, Harry began pacing, while he ran his hands through his hair in agitation. "Damn the Prophet anyway!"

At Hermione's curious look, he shook his head exasperatedly. "Come on, Hermione—he's been especially bad since we returned from the Ministry. No doubt he's angry because you dared to raise your wand against dear old daddy."

Hermione blinked—she had not come to that conclusion, but as she considered it, she realized that Harry was right. It was exactly how Malfoy would react, and she did not doubt in the slightest that Harry had hit upon the problem. The question was, could Malfoy be dangerous enough to actually do something about it?

And the answer, uncomfortable though it might be, was undoubtedly that he was. Perhaps she might have dismissed anything he might do before, but his stares, his behavior, especially since Christmas break, led her to believe that not only was he capable of harming her, but that it was increasingly likely he would try to do so, if he ever got the chance.

"I swear to you, Hermione," Harry said fiercely, stopping his pacing and turning to look at her with some emotion, "if he tries anything against you I will tear him apart."

Hermione reached over and put a hand on him arm, partially in an effort to calm him, and partially because it was thrilling for her to hear of his care for her and his desire to keep her safe. "Don't be concerned for me, Harry," she said in a very soft tone. "You've taught me how to defend myself, remember?"

"This is not a game any more, Hermione," Harry replied, trembling with emotion. "Malfoy is not some adolescent calling you names and getting us in trouble in potions class."

He paused for a moment trying to master his emotions. "This is for real," he finally said. "I'm afraid he will hurt you. Or worse."

Hermione took his hand again and stepped close. "I don't consider it a game, Harry. I will be very careful."

Harry searched her eyes. "I just couldn't bear it if anything were to happen to you."

Hermione stepped into the circle of his arms, molding herself to him as his arms came around her shoulders and held her close. _This_ was her Harry—the wonderful young man who cared for her so much, who worried about those around him and tried to make a difference in everyone's lives. This was the man with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

After a moment she stepped from his embrace and with a sultry smile leaned back against the corridor wall behind her. Harry, with a half smile on his face, drew close again and braced his hand up against the wall, gazing into her eyes. His expression was intense and affectionate at the same time, and it filled her with a warmth she had never felt before, making her feel safe and protected.

"With you to protect me, what could possibly happen?"

A raised eyebrow met her statement. "This from the girl who absolutely refused to stay behind and then hexed Lucius Malfoy to within an inch of his life?"

As he spoke, Harry began nuzzling Hermione's neck, nipping and kissing his way from the base of her collarbone up to the line of her jawbone. Hermione sighed and rested her head back against the wall, allowing him better access.

"Fleur and I are capable of handling ourselves," she managed as she began to feel a little breathless from his attentions. "But that doesn't mean that we don't find your insistence on protecting us thrilling."

Harry pulled back and peered into her eyes. His own gaze was smoldering with love and affection, not to mention barely repressed desire. It was thrilling all over again, that this young man who was just about the most handsome in the entire school felt such a deep level of commitment for her. And she knew that was what it was. Many might scoff at the notion of a young man, not even sixteen, was able to feel such a level of emotion and commitment, but Hermione knew that his feelings were real. Harry was not an average fifteen year-old boy.

"Well it's good that you don't mind it, because I'm not about to stop. You and Fleur mean the world to me and I'll be damned if I let anything happen to either of you."

Harry paused a moment, still regarding her with that deep and unfathomable emotion in his eyes. It was perhaps clichéd, but Hermione at that moment understood the expression that the eyes were the mirror to the soul. In the depths of his brilliant green eyes, Hermione felt the depth of his regard for her, knowing that her own returned the sentiment in every particular. She was in love with this serious young man, and she now knew that she had been daft to have ever thought she could resist or deny him anything.

In that moment, something seemed to pass between them—a shared understanding or even more a joining of souls on a purely emotional level. Harry regarded her evenly and in a moment, said the words which Hermione had thought would still take him many months or even years to say.

"Hermione, I love you."

With tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, Hermione responded simply, "And I love you."

And then Harry's lips were on hers, questing, claiming her own with all the passion of a man in love. Hermione was in heaven—this was the boy she had not so secretly loved with all her heart since he had saved her from a twelve-foot troll in her first year, jumping on its back with no thought to his own safety. Hermione felt herself respond with abandon, meeting his tongue with her own in a sweet and passionate duel. He did not demand—he gave of himself even as she gave him everything of herself. It was a meeting of two young lovers, flush with the feeling of requited love.

At length Harry broke away from her, his chest heaving with emotion. Hermione's heart was beating in time with his own, and somehow her hands had found their way into his hair, while his were positioned around her lower back, pressing her up against him.

"We better stop before we do something we will regret," he gasped through heavy breaths.

And _this_ was what she loved about Harry more than anything else—his sense of nobility and his respect for her. "How did you get to be such an amazing kisser?" she moaned.

"Just natural ability, I suppose," Harry replied with a hint of a conceited smirk.

Hermione laughed and then tried to glare up at him. "Methinks someone has a bit of a big head."

Harry only grinned at her. "I'm not the one who said it."

Laughing to concede the point, Hermione grasped Harry's hand and began to pull him down that corridor toward Gryffindor tower. "Let's get back to the common room. We're supposed to be setting the example, and it won't look good if we're caught snogging in the halls after curfew.

They made their way through the hallways, but the journey took twice the time it normally should have, as Harry kept stopping every few minutes to curl her toes with his kisses. Hermione herself initiated just as many of their little delays as Harry did himself. Though she had been happy with the times they had spent deepening their relationship, this had been the first time they had ever gone so far as a couple. She loved Fleur like a sister, but having Harry to herself would be an important part of their relationship, as she knew that Harry's time alone with Fleur would also be essential for their relationship. Tonight had been a wonderful start.

* * *

As the two Gryffindors made their way down the corridor, they never noticed the pair of ice blue eyes watching them as they walked, disgusted at their display, and hating them more than ever.

Tired of the overt stupidity displayed by his closest companions and impatient for his father's inevitable release, Draco had left the common room some time earlier. A little solitude was welcome, allowing him to think further about the matter which had become his obsession—revenge against Potter for the impertinences his family had suffered. And the time was approaching swiftly.

Of course, being a prefect himself, Draco had known that tonight had been Potter and Granger's night to patrol and though he was still controlling his righteous anger, the thought of running into them and teaching them the consequences of their actions had made for a delightful bit of speculation on how he would go about their education.

He had not actually come across them until the very end of his stroll, and by that time they had already been engaged in their amorous liaison. Disgusted, Draco had briefly considered ending his rivalry right there against the two he hated above all others.

But now was not the time, nor should Potter's ultimate defeat be so easy. No, he must pay first—pay for his actions, pay for his lack of vision. And besides, Potter was not his to end, though Draco would have liked nothing more than to be the one to end his misbegotten line once and for all. No, that pleasure belonged to the Dark Lord and none other.

But first, Potter needed to suffer. And there was no better way for him to suffer than to see those objects of his pathetic affection taken from him one by one, each one tormenting him more than the last, until he was finally nothing more than a broken husk. _Only then_ could he be allowed to die at the Dark Lord's wand.

And Draco knew just how to accomplish the initial lesson in Potter's education. There was something being planned—something major which would remind the enemies if the Dark Lord exactly why he was feared, and why his rule was an inevitability. Distracting Potter and Dumbledore at the right moment would ensure the plan's success, though Draco knew that its success was a foregone conclusion. But Draco would do his part, and he would enjoy it immensely.

The time for action was quickly approaching.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Continued thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. Luckily, I had this mostly written a week ago, or I would not be posting tonight, as the last week has been hectic. Of course, being so busy put an end to any thoughts of getting a little ahead and posting an extra chapter here and there.

2. For those who are becoming uneasy at what's going on with Draco, that's the effect I was intending. The situation with him will come to a head very soon...

3. I think most Harry/Hermione shippers will be happy with that last section with them, and you have chem prof to thank for it. I had gone back through some of the fics that I had not read in ages, and started reading through his work again, and more specifically read his _Soul Searching/End Game_ story. In my opinion, he does Harry/Hermione romance better than anyone out there. This scene was planned for a later chapter, but when I had a look over the previous ones, I thought it would fit well in here, along with a development in their relationship. I hope you enjoyed it.

4. For those who don't think it's fair, rest assured that his declarations with Fleur are coming soon. But I think it makes sense for him to declare his feelings for Hermione first—he's known her for far longer, and he had already acknowledged feelings for her at the start of the story. Again, Fleur's turn is coming soon.


	46. Chapter 45 – A House Divided

**Previously: **Amelia Bones is elected as the new Minister for Magic. The Wizengamot authorizes the use of Veritaserum for all present and suspected future Death Eaters. Amelia appoints Rufus Scrimgeour as the new Director of the DMLE and Kingsley Shacklebolt as the new Head Auror. Jean-Sebastian Delacour pledges French support against Voldemort. Harry and Hermione speak about Draco's recent actions, and Harry tells Hermione he loves her for the first time.

* * *

**Chapter 45 – A House Divided**

As the week progressed, the furor over Harry's actions the night of the Ministry dustup began to wane. The event was still talked of in great detail and Harry and his two lady friends still received many looks and gestures, but the behavior was not as overt as it had been when the news first broke. To a certain extent speculation began to turn to the fate of those Death Eaters who had been captured during the event, with those such as Malfoy, who had a personal stake in the matter, seemingly waiting impatiently for news that their fathers had been released. The rest of the school seemed to be divided in their opinions. Those among them who had been part of the escape from Azkaban several months earlier seemed destined to return there as soon as may be arranged. Because the Wizengamot had opted for the use of Veritaserum, it seemed likely that the others would join them. However, as a credit to most of the student body, most seemed to understand that even if they were returned to Azkaban, that Voldemort would just bide his time and then swoop in and release them, much as he had done before. This led to rumors, ranging from suspicion that the Ministry had created another holding area for convicted Death Eaters, to speculation that the Death Eaters would be returned to Azkaban, but that the Ministry was setting up a trap to catch the Dark Lord when he arrived to free his minions.

Harry did not know for certain what would happen. Sirius had been close-mouthed about the doings of the Wizengamot, only stating that yes, Madam Bones and the Chief Warlock were aware of the danger of simply locking them back up in Azkaban again, but that there had not been any discussion as to their ultimate fate.

Sirius had been away for a good part of the week due to his duties in the Wizengamot, though they had not had to go without a professor. The headmaster had requested—and been granted—a junior Auror from the Ministry to stand in on those occasions when Sirius was not available. Auror Dixon did not teach the subject in as interesting or lighthearted a manner as Sirius was wont to, but he was clearly competent and understood the concepts, so Harry found that he could not complain.

The decrease in attention—though Harry could never say that it was completely gone—was welcome to Harry. He had always been uncomfortable with it, though he was learning to use it to his advantage in certain circumstances. But now, with his time taken up by prefect duties, Quidditch practice, school work, and the Defense club, not to mention the time spent with two attractive young witches, it was just as well that he did not have to look over his shoulder quite so much.

Of course, Malfoy was still a problem, as he and Hermione had discussed only the night before. Though he had seen Malfoy's attention switching to Hermione more and more throughout the course of the year, she was now clearly in his sights, and none of his attention was good.

And what was even more concerning about the situation was the fact that he made no overt moves. Malfoy's defining characteristic—other than perhaps his blatant bigotry and contempt for those he considered beneath him—was his inability to hold his tongue. In fact, Harry had often joked with Hermione that he seemed to have a more Gryffindor attitude than most Gryffindors. He charged ahead, spouting his Pureblood drivel loudly, hexing others at the first sign that events were not going in his favor, never bothering to conceal his opinions in the slightest, except in those situations where he might be punished by a professor. Now, however, he made no obvious moves. He sat back and watched, and unless Harry misunderstood him completely, plotted and planned. Whatever had happened during the Yule holiday had at least induced him to be a little less obvious in his prejudices.

Harry was concerned. If the snake had finally grown a set of fangs, it was almost certain in Harry's mind that he would try something. It was possible that whatever he eventually tried would be something in the nature of a schoolyard retaliation for the grievances he carried, but Harry did not think so. Given the diatribes the ponce had spouted off in previous years, and the hatred he now so blatantly directed at Hermione in particular, Harry was very much afraid that his ultimate move would be one which was intended to do far more than cause Hermione discomfort or humiliation.

But thus far there was nothing to be done. Dumbledore's eyes had narrowed when Harry had explained the matter to him, on the rare occasion that the Headmaster had been in the castle that week.

* * *

"I understand your concerns, Harry, and I would be lying if I said it did not share them," the ancient wizard said, while passing a weary hand over his eyes. "But for the moment you must be patient."

"Why not?" Harry demanded.

"Because to this point Draco has done nothing," Dumbledore responded. "You simply cannot convict someone for acts which he has not committed. It is a very slippery slope to a police state, or worse, should we begin incarcerating anyone who was even _thinking_ of committing a crime."

"Couldn't we give him Veritaserum or something?" Harry's suggestion was a trifle plaintive, even to his own ears. His worry over both girls, and Hermione specifically, considering Malfoy's behavior, was beginning to get to him. He simply _could not_ lose either one of them!

"I cannot, Harry," said Dumbledore.

Harry moved to interject, but Dumbledore was firm. "I agree with your assessment of the situation, Harry, including your concerns about Draco." He stopped and sighed before speaking again. "It is to be pitied whenever someone travels the path of evil and bigotry, never to be recovered from it. I had hoped that young Mr. Malfoy could be persuaded from his father's path, and have instructed Severus to try to help him see reason. Of course, because Severus is in the position he is, he cannot be overt in his advice."

Dumbledore Paused for a moment, apparently deep in thought. "I have often wondered if requiring Severus's activities with respect to the Dark Lord have removed any possibility of Draco's redemption. The wise counsel of a head of house may have been enough to tip him back to the side of the light."

With a snort, Harry said, "With all due respect, Headmaster, I doubt he was ever on our side. His father ensured that."

"Alas, I fear you are correct, Harry, but we should never give up hope." Dumbledore stopped and regarded him, his expression very serious. "As for your concerns regarding Mr. Malfoy, you are wise to be wary. Unfortunately, at this point the only thing we can do is to watch him carefully, and ensure he is never in a position to do harm to any of the ladies. If he does try something you may, of course, take decisive action. I only caution you to remember restraint, Harry—do not do something which will haunt you for the rest of your life."

And with that Harry was forced to be content.

* * *

By the time Wednesday evening rolled around, Harry was looking forward to the club meeting, knowing that it would at least be a distraction from his worried thoughts. It was the one thing in his life which was going particularly well and according to plan.

Upon their return from Christmas break and Harry's subsequent teaching of the Patronus charm, they had spent some time each week practicing it, while they spent the rest of the time going over new spells, discussing tactics and dueling strategies, interspersed with some instruction on how an all out fight would be expected to proceed. Of course Harry's experience in the Department of Mysteries, had given him some extra credibility with the group, and had helped him to understand even better himself what to expect. They practiced all these things and Harry thought he could see some remarkable improvement in all members of the club, to the point where a few of them—especially the older students—had begun to master the Patronus. They now had a firm dozen club members who could cast the difficult charm effectively, though of course none had had to cast it in the actual presence of a Dementor. Most of the rest were to the point of being able to at least conjure a shield when casting the charm, though that was still beyond some of the youngest members of the group. Still, the professors who oversaw their activities were delighted, saying that it was a testament to the group's general talent and Harry's teaching skills that there were so many in the club who were able to cast the charm that stymied many adults.

On that particular Wednesday they went through their normal practice routines, and after a successful meeting, Harry called the group together again. He gave them a brief pep talk, and congratulated them on their progress. When he made to dismiss them for the evening, he noticed Daphne trying to gain his attention and turned toward her with a smile.

"Is there something you'd like to share with the group, Daphne?"

Daphne returned his smile with an impish grin. "Yes please, Professor Potter."

Laughed met her cheeky words, and Harry ducked his head a little in embarrassment, thinking that his words _had_ sounded a little like a professor granting a student with her hand up a chance to speak.

"I just wanted to thank you, Hermione and Fleur for organizing this club," Daphne said, her voice taking on a more serious cast. A swell of murmured agreement met her words and Harry, though perhaps with not complete coherence, muttered thanks for her words. Daphne, however, was not done.

"More than that, I wanted to make a proposal to the members of the club." She stopped and swept her gaze about the room, catching the eyes of many of the members of the club. "I think we can all agree that we've benefitted greatly from our time in the club, and I believe it is time to give something back, specifically to Harry."

Harry found himself a little nonplused at her statement—it was not as though he had decided to do this to gain anything for himself. It was of benefit to them all, _especially himself_, as he found he learned as much from the experience as those he was teaching. More even, he was forced to admit.

He was about to say that it was not necessary, when Daphne again spoke. "Now, before Harry tells us that he is happy to do it and that we don't need to give anything back to him," Daphne paused and cast an amused eye on him as his mouth snapped shut, "I think that my proposal with benefit us all, as his help has benefit us.

"It's obvious that recent events at the Ministry suggest that our fearless leader is at the thick of the fight against Voldemort, and I suggest that we support him in any way that we can. I think we should formalize the Defense Club—turn it into a more formal organization. Make it even a quasi military organization."

She paused again for a moment to let her suggestion sink in, and in that moment, Sirius, who had returned to the castle for the meeting, spoke up. "What exactly did you have in mind, Daphne?"

"Just that we work to oppose Voldemort," Daphne replied. By now there were none of the telltale flinches at the mention of the dark git's name. "I know that we will not be allowed to fight him outright when we are underage, but there are things we can do to help." She stopped and looked deliberately about the room, meeting the eyes of many of the members of the Defense Club. "We all know that Voldemort is fixated on Harry, so that logically means that at some point he will turn his eyes toward Hogwarts. Whether we want it to or not, there may be a time when we are forced to fight back."

"Aren't you being a little fatalistic?" one of the seventh years from Hufflepuff asked.

Daphne turned to face him. "Am I? Was Harry's confrontation with Voldemort at the Ministry fatalistic?"

"You can argue that he went looking for that one," Cho Chang stated.

"I certainly didn't expect to encounter Voldemort there," Harry responded, knowing that the fiction which had been reported in the paper needed to be upheld. "I found out about a prophecy about me and thought it was my right to know what it said."

"And did you find out?" Cho challenged.

Harry gazed back at her, wondering how much to reveal. He was saved from having to respond when Sirius spoke up.

"Harry destroyed the prophecy so that Voldemort could not get his hands on it. Knowing that he felt so strongly about it, I told him what it said when he returned to Hogwarts the next morning."

"And?" Marietta Edgecombe prompted, leaning forward slightly with some interest. Trust a Ravenclaw to be enthused when there was knowledge to be gained.

"I'm sorry, but I can't say," Harry responded quickly. "Dumbledore advised me to keep it a secret."

"And a secret it will remain," Daphne interjected. "I don't claim to know if The Prophet is just spouting drivel with all this talk of Harry being 'The Chosen One.' What I do know is that he's going to continue to be a part of the fight against Voldemort because Voldemort doesn't seem to want to leave him alone."

"You've got that right," one of the twins said. "Our buddy Harry is a regular trouble magnet."

"I don't go looking for trouble!" Harry protested.

"No, but it certainly seems to go looking for you!" the other twin chimed in.

Laughter erupted and after a playful glare at the twins, Harry joined in. When it died down, Harry felt it necessary to dampen the enthusiasm for Daphne's idea.

"Look everyone, it's more than a little dangerous being me right now. I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

"All the more reason to have a firm support group behind you," Tracey spoke up, followed by murmurs of approval from the rest of the club.

"Exactly," said Daphne. "What are you teaching us for, if you're going to take everything on yourself? If you're going to handle Voldemort and all his Death Eaters and creatures by yourself, then the rest of us might as well sit back and let you get to it, don't you think?"

Harry's face bloomed in sudden embarrassment. "Daphne, I don't think that I can defeat Voldemort by myself."

"Of course you don't," Daphne replied with some compassion. "But sometimes it almost seems like you think you can, when you try to protect everyone around you. It's an admirable trait, Harry, but it may end up getting you killed one day."

Once again quiet murmurs spread throughout the group, and Harry saw as Daphne specifically caught Hermione nodding at her. Hermione then caught Harry's gaze and she grinned at him, no doubt thinking of all the times she had made this exactly point to him.

"We can help patrolling the castle," Daphne continued and then paused, as an amused expression came over her face. "After all, wouldn't we all feel a little safer if someone other than Malfoy and Parkinson were patrolling?"

There was nothing to be said to that statement—it was in every way true.

"We can also help protect the castle, keep the younger years safe, provide support if the Death Eaters ever attack here. There are plenty of things that we can do, even if we aren't involved with the actual fighting."

From there the idea seemed to take off and soon the entire Defense Club was discussing the idea enthusiastically, though with a few exceptions. There were a handful of the club members who balked, saying that they had joined to learn for their OWLs and had no intention of being involved any further. Though it appeared that some of his stauncher supporters were slightly put out by this attitude, Harry stepped in immediately, professing his support and letting everyone know that no one would be forced to participate. His only restriction was that they keep this new development to themselves, which they all readily agreed. They were then excused from the rest of the discussion.

Before long they had worked out a rough command structure for the group, as Ron insisted that if they were to become a quasi military organization, then they should act like one. It was decided that Harry would be in overall command, with Hermione and Fleur as his lieutenants—Hermione would be in charge of training regimen and lesson content, while Fleur would focus on troop disposition and duty rosters. Then they divided the rest of the members into troops, one for each house—with the exception of Gryffindor, which had two troops, due to the larger number of Gryffindor members. Each troop was assigned a troop leader an assistant to round out the command for the Defense Club.

At the end of their discussions, it was nearing curfew, a fact of which Sirius reminded them. Just before they were about to break up, Hermione spoke up.

"Since this is no longer exactly a club, maybe we should find a new name?"

"How about Potter's Army?" Colin Creevey piped up, to which Harry responded with a groan.

"Please no," he objected, much to the amusement of the rest of the club. Then he thought of something and grinned wickedly. "If we did that, I've no doubt that Minister Bones would think that I'm raising an army to take over the Ministry."

Laughter once again rang out at Harry's not so subtle dig at the late and unlamented Minister Fudge.

"Actually," Hermione said with a knowing grin in Harry's direction, "I was thinking we just change it slightly to 'Defense Association'. That way we keep the elements of the name we have been using up until now, and it gets the point across as to what our purpose is."

A general swell of agreement met Hermione's suggestion and it was decided. The Defense Club had morphed into the Defense Association. As he walked back to Gryffindor tower with his friend, Harry could hot help but wonder just exactly what it was they had wrought that night.

* * *

Making her way back to the Slytherin common room that evening, Daphne was in a pensive mood. Her thoughts upon going into the Defense Club meeting that evening had been to attempt to make this group which Harry had gathered around him even stronger than it already was. He was a focal point—a lightning rod in the struggle against Voldemort, and the more support he ultimately had from those around him, the better prepared he would be as the war progressed.

Of course, the Defense Club was not exactly in a position to carry the war back to Voldemort. With the possible exception on Hermione and Fleur, Daphne doubted that any members of the club would ever be involved in any heavy fighting with Voldemort's forces, unless, of course, it dragged on for several years. As she had suggested that evening, the Defense Club would serve more as a support organization for Harry, helping in patrolling the castle, training which Harry insisted was teaching him every bit as much as he was learning himself, and just providing that extra level of confidence he would need.

She was, she reflected, fortunate that Harry and those who supported him were what they were. She had been pleasantly surprised when first making his close acquaintance the previous year, to learn that he was a genuine person, one who lived by his convictions and expected those around him to do the same. Any Slytherin in the same situation would have demanded some assurance of their trustworthiness in return for his assistance, but Harry and Dumbledore had merely assented to the need, conducted the negotiations, and accepted them as allies. Now Daphne and her friends enjoyed the benefit of not only Harry's tutelage, but also his support and friendship.

Which brought her to the other subject which had been on her mind. When she had first approached Harry, she had taken something of a wait and see approach, but in the back of her mind, she had kept the thought that she could offer a betrothal contract as proof of her and her family's trustworthiness if he should not take her words at face value, something she expected was very likely. She had had her parents' agreement to do so if it was necessary, knowing that the alliance was very important to their security.

But Harry had proven that was unnecessary. To Harry, she had proven herself by the way she had conducted herself. And as such, she had no need to offer herself up as a means of cementing their alliance—all she had to do was to prove herself and to be a friend to him, to which he responded by being a friend in return. Her own interactions with him and testimony of his closest friend Ron Weasley had spoken for themselves—Harry would do anything for his friends.

Now, however, Daphne felt herself to be at a bit of a crossroads. It was still true that she did not _need_ a betrothal with him, but now she felt herself uncertain as to whether she _wanted_ one. The fact of the matter was that Daphne knew it would be perilously easy to fall in love with Harry Potter. Easy because of the kind of person he was—caring, considerate, and in all facets the manner of young man which all young girls dreamed of sweeping them off their feet. Perilous because Daphne suspected that he would never feel for a third wife what he already felt for Hermione and Fleur. If she could somehow worm her way into his heart to the extent that Fleur and Hermione had done, she imagined that the fact that he was to have two other wives would not matter as much, though she certainly understood it would not be ideal. Still, she would be willing to give up much to be with the man she loved.

But she was still uncertain. His feelings for both girls he was currently courting were obviously deep and permanent. Could she excite such feelings for herself in him? The answer, obviously, was that she was not certain.

She suppressed a sigh as they walked. Tracey—who was striding by her side—knew something of Daphne's dilemma, and she would undoubtedly use the opportunity to tease her if she guessed what Daphne's thoughts were. Tracey was a good friend, but she could be positively infuriating when she was in a teasing mood, one of the only things which annoyed her about her friend.

The entrance to the common room appeared in front of them and Daphne, following Nigel and Blaise, stepped into the room, intending to say good night to her friends before making her way up to the dormitories for some much-needed solitude and sleep, not to mention time to reflect. But it was not to be.

Situated in several chairs and sofas near the fireplace, Draco Malfoy sat, gazing coldly at the new arrivals as they entered the room. About him was arrayed those who supported him in the house—his two large but stupid henchmen, Crabbe and Goyle, along with Nott, Parkinson, and Bulstrode. To the side, several members of the Slytherin Quidditch team stood, though if it came down to a fight, Daphne suspected that only Warrington and Montague would actually back Malfoy up. Pucey was known to be a non-agitator, more interested in his studies than in the tripe Malfoy continually spouted, and Bletchley was essentially a coward. They were both likely here because of a few well-placed threats. There were a few more—mostly higher years—whom were known to sympathize with Voldemort. Most of these, however, were much more Slytherin in their methods, and she was uncertain if they would support Malfoy in an overt confrontation. There were few other Slytherins in evidence, unusual for just after curfew. Clearly most had sensed what was about to occur, and had had the good sense to avoid the confrontation altogether by riding it out in their dormitories.

"This doesn't look good," Tracey said to her softly as she sized up the situation in the room.

Daphne nodded and pulled Astoria to her side, ready to protect her younger sister in case the hexes started flying.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" Malfoy said, leaning lazily back onto the sofa and spreading his arms along the back. "The Blood Traitors have returned."

"Yes, we have," Daphne drawled in an obviously dismissive response. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe that it is time to retire."

"Not so fast," Malfoy growled as he rose to his feet, bringing those who supported him to theirs. He quickly moved in front of the stairwells which led down to the dormitories, his supporters closely arrayed by his sides. With this motion, Daphne was certain he had revealed his true level of support in the house. Of course, all the members of his clique followed him and stood facing the club members. As expected, Warrington and Montague took their positions with him as well, but surprisingly, Bletchley did as well, though he was clearly almost frightened out of his wits. Of the higher years, only one or two of those in attendance showed their support by standing with Malfoy, though Daphne did notice a couple of those still sitting toying with their wands. They would bear close watching.

"It seems like some members of our house have forgotten the ideals of our founder. They consort with Halfbloods and blood traitors, Mudbloods and lesser beings. It seems like those of us who are still right-thinking must educate those who appear to have lost their way."

"And I suppose _you_ think you can educate us?" Tracey snapped with clear disdain literally oozing from her voice. While normally Daphne might have tried to hold her friend's caustic nature in check, in this instance it might actually help induce Malfoy to back down. Perhaps it was best for them all if they demonstrated exactly what Harry had been teaching them, and just exactly how well they were now able to protect themselves.

"_You'll_ be the first to learn your true place, Davis," Malfoy snapped contemptuously.

"And make no mistake," he boomed theatrically, "the time is swiftly coming when all who would weaken our society and leave us vulnerable to the Muggles will be swept away and a new order will take its place. We must work together so that we may protect ourselves from those who would do us harm."

He was certainly a true disciple, Daphne thought, though his words did not impress her. He was obviously careful in his words and made no overt mention of Voldemort, but his tone was unmistakable, and he clearly expected to be exalted in Voldemort's "new world order." But he, like others of his ilk, forgot one simple matter in their rush to ingratiate themselves into Voldemort's good books—the Dark Lord did not share power. He considered himself to be supreme. Everyone else was fit only to be a slave. Of course it was true that some slaves might be more equal than others, but they would still be slaves as evidenced by the brand he forced on them all. None would ever have any measure of power that he did not give them.

Daphne did the only thing she could—she broke into applause, clapping while shooting Malfoy with a contemptuous smile. "Bravo, Malfoy. Tell me, did it take you long to come up with that speech?"

"Maybe I was mistaken," Malfoy said with a glower. "You should be the first one to learn your place and live up to your heritage."

"I don't know about _you_, but _my_ heritage does not include bowing down before a Halfblood in the name of blood purity."

Malfoy snarled in response. "How dare you insult the Dark Lord!"

"It's hardly an insult to tell the truth, now is it?"

"It's obvious you have been corrupted by Potter." His smile became absolutely feral. "I will enjoy re-educating you in the proper behavior."

"In your dreams, Malfoy."

"You all have a choice," Malfoy continued speaking as though Daphne had not said a word. "You can renounce this nonsense with Potter and return to your proper affiliation. Choose wisely—if you make the wrong choice, you will end up regretting it."

"You really are an idiot, Malfoy," Tracey jibed. "We've been practicing our skills all year, in addition to our Defense classes. What have you been doing besides preening in front of the mirror?"

"If you want to try and stop us from attending the club meetings, you're welcome to try," Nigel added "Be prepared to be humiliated if you do."

"Now get your gorillas out of the way and leave us in peace," Greta added in the snobbish voice she was so good at."

Now, in Malfoy's defense, Daphne was certain the ponce had no intention to start a firefight—not even Malfoy could be that reckless. His usual method was to threaten, cajole, and then call for daddy if things did not go his way, though the last option was not available at the moment for obvious reasons. What he had not counted on was the fact that not all of his cronies were very bright.

Daphne had watched the entire group as the confrontation wore on, and though, for the most part, they had kept their countenances stony while allowing Draco to be their spokesman, Crabbe and Goyle's expressions had become darker as the insults were exchanged. But when Greta had finally insulted them, using the term "gorilla"—which Daphne had used herself against them many a time—Crabbe's patience snapped.

His wand snapped up and he spit out a curse at the fourth year, which prompted a hail of spellfire in response from the already keyed up club members. Of course Greta was ready for the slow Slytherin, blocking the curse and following it with a hex of her own.

For the most part, Draco's Slytherins were overcome in a matter of moments. The club members had practiced far too much and had managed to outstrip their opponents rather spectacularly over the course of the year. Of course, Daphne thought maliciously as she parried a vicious hex from Malfoy and returned fire with a nasty combination, it did help that Draco and his cohorts were not exactly the most competent individuals.

"You had better just face the facts, Greengrass," Draco ground out at her as he struggled to counter her attacks. All about him his supporters were being felled by the club members, and his situation was becoming even more desperate by the moment. "As Purebloods we're just better than the rest of them. You should be grateful that I'm willing to give you my personal attention.

"The personal attention of a delusional daddy's boy," Daphne returned with considerable contempt. She dodged his stunner and responded with a disarming, stunner, petrifaction combination, the last of which almost had Malfoy as he dodged to the side. Daphne had to admit that he was performing better than she had expected—it seemed as though someone had been practicing.

By this point, however, Malfoy was the only one still standing, as the club members had disarmed or stunned the rest of his company.

_ Too bad his idiot friends haven't practiced_, she thought viciously. _They might have lasted a little longer._

Stepping to the side, Daphne responded with a stunner, bracketed by a pushback hex and a bat bogey hex she had learned by observing the youngest Weasley, as she demonstrated it only a few days earlier. Malfoy dodged the stunner, only to unfortunately walk right into the bat bogey, and was knocked back onto his arse, as his own bogeys began to attack his face. From there it was a simple matter to relieve him of his wand.

Catching Tracey's eyes, Daphne noted the look of approval her friend was giving her. "Now that's poetic justice," the other girl said with a laugh.

Daphne grinned but was not given an opportunity to respond as, at that moment, the portrait hole opened, and the forbidding figure of their potions master head of house stormed into the common room.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, taking in the scene in an instant.

"I think you will have to ask Mr. Malfoy that question," Daphne replied. "He and his friends decided to ambush us when we got back tonight.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "And what were you all doing out this evening so late? Did you return in time for curfew?"

Daphne looked up at the large clock on the wall and noted that curfew had indeed passed during the confrontation. It was also immediately understood that Snape, hating everything to do with Harry Potter as he did, would take any opportunity to punish those with whom he associated, and as he obviously knew that the club met that night, now was just such an opportunity.

"We were back before curfew," Nigel said quickly. Daphne was glad he spoke up as, being a seventh year prefect, his word carried some more weight than if one of the others had made the claim.

"Tonight is the night the defense club meets, sir," Greta spoke up, answering Snape's other question.

The potions professor contented himself with a grunt. He produced his wand and flicked it at Malfoy's crew, releasing them from their various states. Malfoy immediately leapt to his feet, his fists clenched in rage, and took a menacing step forward toward Daphne.

"That will be enough, Mr. Malfoy!" Snape yelled at the blond. He turned to Daphne, who was still clutching his wand in one hand and said, "Return Mr. Malfoy's wand to him."

Daphne, determined to keep her distance from the git, flicked her wrist and the wand rose in a gentle arc, to be snatched out of the air by its owner. Though Malfoy appeared ready to further hostilities, a single quelling look from his head of house and he sullenly turned to his followers, who, by this time, had all regained their feet.

"Let's get out of here. The stench of Blood Traitors and lesser beings is starting to get to me."

"Not so fast," Snape commanded, though only Malfoy had made any move to leave. The rest of his cronies all stood, equally dividing their attention between glaring at the club members hatefully, and throwing fearful glances at the potions master. It was a rather incongruous combination to be certain. "No one is leaving until I get to the bottom of this."

He regarded the entire group with a baleful eye. "Now, will someone please tell me what in Merlin's name has happened here tonight?"

* * *

As the students began to explain the events of the evening, Snape felt a headache of prodigious proportions coming on. It was almost as bad as a Potter-induced headache, and those could only be induced by two people, one of whom was thankfully dead. Now that he thought about it, though, in some ways this was even worse than a Potter-induced headache. With Potter, he could simply scowl at the brat, deduct some points, and send him on his way. That, of course, was not exactly an option in this case—he was head of house, and had no choice but to deal with this fiasco.

The truth of the matter quickly became clear, and it was corroborated by several witnesses who had been in the common room at the time of the confrontation. The club members had returned from their meeting, and had been confronted in the common room by Draco and his friends. And since Draco had been complaining for weeks about Slytherins attending something run by the detestable Potter—though to the boy's slight credit he had generally kept his complaints from becoming _too_ obvious—it was not difficult to determine that he had instigated the entire fracas. The fact that Crabbe had fired the first curse was essentially irrelevant—Dumbledore would hold Draco accountable for provoking the confrontation, and Snape could not disagree with that assessment.

Snape allowed his eyes to wander over his friend's son as Pucey related what had happened from his perspective. The fact of the matter was that Draco was a disappointment. He was an indifferent student at best, he was not intelligent enough to possess any true cunning, and he was about as subtle as a bludger.

In his first year, he had been directed by his father to approach Potter and offer his friendship. That had been completely mucked up, as Draco had only managed to offend Potter with his arrogance and conceit, insulting Potter's own fledgling friendships in the same breath. From there, it had only gone downhill. He had antagonized and insulted Potter and his friends at every opportunity, and Snape suspected the only reason he had _ever_ gotten the better of the Gryffindors was because Snape himself had rescued him several times. The boy was simply not true Slytherin material, and the only reason he had been placed into the house of the snake was likely because the boy had requested it. That and the fact that he did not truly fit in any one of the other houses either, as Snape was well aware that the hat would not give way if a student requested a house when he was a much better fit for another.

Since the winter break, Snape had thought that perhaps finally Draco was making progress. He had been quieter, keeping his own counsel, refraining from going after Potter at _every_ opportunity, watching and listening, rather than barging in like any Gryffindor. But it appeared like it had only been a sham. The Dark Lord had taken some interest in Draco's instruction, Snape understood, and it must have been the fear of the Dark Lord that had kept him in check.

Unfortunately, it was now apparent that the boy had learned nothing. He had merely suppressed his natural instincts due to fear, and had not truly developed any measure of cunning. A Slytherin did not act in this manner. A Slytherin was smart and sly, acting behind the scenes and manipulating events from the shadows, while having the talent and ability to intervene directly, but only if every other option was exhausted. Draco did not fit this mold. He had never fit it.

"I have never been so disgusted with the members of this house in my life," Snape began when the entire story was out. "I would expect Gryffindors to throw insults around and solve their differences with their wands. But we are Slytherin. The house of the lion may strut and preen and use brute force to overcome their prey. The house of the snake uses stealth and a superior understanding and manipulation to influence events to suit his purpose, and then strikes when the time is right.

"Tonight, no one in this room has shown these traits. _No one!_" More than a few of the students jumped when he spat the last in disgust.

"But sir—"

"You will listen and not speak, Miss Greengrass," Snape interrupted. It was the younger sister who had tried to speak, though the elder was silent, watching and listening, but not making any attempt to justify her actions. It was ironic, he decided, that the one girl who might be the most Slytherin of them all, and who was the unfortunate opposite of Draco, was also the one who despised him the most, though Snape rather thought Draco was somewhat fixated on her. Of course, Daphne would not even give him the time of day, which was even more regrettable as she was almost certainly one who would take him in hand and show him how to behave properly. Not that Snape could blame her—Miss Greengrass's abilities far exceeded Draco's own, more was the pity.

"I can understand that you all defended yourselves from Mr. Malfoy's aggression, and I cannot fault you for that. But even so, I believe a little more Slytherin is called for. Perhaps you could have found some way to avoid the confrontation. You are, of course, allowed to attend these club meetings, but perhaps a little less confrontational posture in the matter of Potter's club would be more befitting a Slytherin?"

Snape could immediately see that many were not convinced, but he chose not to belabor the point. They would learn as they matured.

"And what were you thinking when you provoked this, Mr. Malfoy?"

The only response he received was a mumble from the infuriating boy. "I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, what was that?"

Draco glared defiantly. "_Some_ members of this house are traitors, by associating with Potter. They need to be shown the error of their ways."

"Are you to judge that?"

"My father said—"

"Regardless of what your father said," Snape once again interrupted, noting the rolled eyes Draco's oft-repeated refrain had generated, "I believe it is for every one of us to decide exactly how they act, and where there allegiances are. In fact," he glanced over the club members, "I believe a certain amount of credit is due our members who have infiltrated Potter's club, regardless of their reasons. It is very Slytherin to insinuate yourself into a group who would normally not accept you."

Turning back to Draco's crew, he frowned again. "Now, there will be no more of this Gryffindor-ish behavior." He paused and allowed his imperious gaze to wander over them all. "For provoking the incident, that will be twenty points, Mr. Malfoy, and two weeks detention with Mr. Filch. It will not happen again, or the punishment will be much more severe, I assure you." He glared at Draco, but the boy refused to meet his gaze.

"Mr. Crabbe, that will be ten points for casting the first hex, and a week's detention. In addition, everyone who supported Mr. Malfoy and confronted the club members will be docked an additional five points, and will serve three nights of detention."

Snape turned his attention toward the club members. "Furthermore, for insulting your house mates in a manner not befitting a Slytherin, Miss Davis, Miss Greengrass and Miss White will also be docked five points each." Raking his gaze out over them all, Snape continued, "I believe this will take Slytherin out of contention for the house cup. You may be assured that every member of the house will know exactly who has caused our disqualification."

"Now, you will all return to your dorms now. I am enforcing a dorm curfew from this time for the rest of the evening. I suggest you use this time wisely to consider what exactly it means to be a Slytherin."

As the students rose to leave, Snape snapped, "You will remain behind, Mr. Malfoy."

The boy sullenly flopped back into his chair, fixing Snape with a resentful glare. Snape did not particularly care for the boy's attitude.

When the rest of the house had made their way to the dorms, Snape fixed Draco with a meaningful glare. "Now, let's discuss this again without everyone else in the house listening in, shall we? Just what did you think you were doing by provoking a firefight in the Slytherin common room?"

The boy glared petulantly at him. "I was doing as the Dark Lord commanded."

"And how is damaging your standing in the house and further dividing us, what the Dark Lord commanded?"

"You wouldn't understand."

Snape glared at the obtuse little git. "I wouldn't understand," he mimicked Draco's words. "You moronic dunderhead!" Draco scowled and attempted to say something, but Snape continued right on over the boy's words. "You were instructed to begin to assert your will on the house and bring them into line, but to do nothing overt. Your actions tonight were not overt? If you were in Gryffindor, your tactic might have been successful. In Slytherin, you do nothing more that alienate yourself from the rest of the hose you are supposed to lead."

Eyes widened in surprise, Draco gazed at him, clearly taken aback.

"What, you suppose that I did not know of the instructions you received from the Dark Lord during the Yule holiday? Or that he took a direct hand in your instruction? Not that it appears like you've learned anything from his tutelage, if your little display here tonight is any indication.

"I ask you again—how was provoking a fight supposed to help you lead the house of the ambitious and cunning?"

"What should I do?" the boy demanded. "Just allow members of the house to go to Potter's little club like they aren't traitors?" It was clear that he had intended to sound imperious, but they came off as nothing more than whiny.

"Perhaps you could use some of the traits for which our house is famous," Snape ground out.

Leaning back in his chair, Snape watched the boy deliberately. It was clear that the boy's greatest wish was to follow in his father's footsteps, but it was also clear that he had little of the intelligence and talent his father had possessed at a similar age. Yet, Snape felt he owed something to the boy's father. Snape had been a shy first year—with naught but a Muggleborn for a friend—when he had arrived at Hogwarts. Lucius, being a prefect and the scion of a wealthy and influential family, had taken Snape under his wing and shown him the ropes. He had grown up in Slytherin trying to emulate the elder Malfoy's behavior, though he had other habits, Snape suspected, that were... disturbing to say the least, if what he had heard from others in the Dark Lord's camp were in any way true. Snape had always tried to mentor Lucius's son, though it had been frustrating in the extreme. He hoped that Draco would survive the war, though it was Snape's greatest wish for the Dark Lord to meet an end, and in order for him to survive, Draco would need to be kept from openly supporting the Dark Lord. Behavior such as this would not see that desire realized, however, and thus far even the Dark Lord himself had been able to induce Slytherin behavior from the boy. He simply did not have it in him.

Unfortunately, it may be too late for Draco. Unless the Dark Lord was defeated immediately, Snape had little doubt that Draco would either try something stupid and get himself killed, or he would be captured and spend most of his adult life decorating a cell in Azkaban.

There was also Snape's suspicion that the boy had been tasked with something. He had no proof but the boy's recent behavior had suggested that he had been given some task or another. He was not foolish enough to expose himself by fishing for any information which the Dark Lord had not authorized his knowledge, but even his passive Legilimency efforts had yielded nothing—the boy had been taught enough Occlumency to protect himself against a passive scan, as most Purebloods were, and Snape knew he could not force the issue with an active probe. If the situation was what he suspected, then Draco would at some point act against Potter or one of the two girls he kept by his side, and that any blatant action against Potter or his friends might end up spelling Draco's end.

But there was not much that Snape could do. If Draco had been given something to accomplish, it was either do it or pay the price for willfully disobeying, not that Draco would find any reason to disobey. If his suspicions were correct, Snape could only hope that Draco either succeeded in what he had been instructed to do, or that the boy's failure was not too egregious. Of his blatant actions in the common room that night, well, perhaps a different tactic was called for.

"When I began attending this school, your father was in his fifth year and was already a prefect. By that time, he had already… 'asserted his will' over Slytherin house. How do think he did so? Was it through open challenges and provoking fights in the common room? Do you think the Dark Lord, when he attended Hogwarts, ruled Slytherin house like a Gryffindor?"

Draco eyed him silently and refused to reply.

"Of course they did not. Your father was aware of his position in society and used that to his advantage, of course, but he worked from the background, manipulating events through his knowledge and influence. When a demonstration of resolve was required he did not back down, but he was largely able to rely on his more Slytherin attributes to uphold his position. If you wish to survive in the Dark Lord's company, I suggest you learn to act more in a manner befitting a Slytherin of noble pedigree.

"I can no longer protect you from your own stupidity." Draco glared at him as he said this, but Snape took no notice. "Dumbledore will learn of the events of the evening, and he will come down on you and your friends even harder than I have. I know the Dark Lord has tasked you with something; your mission will now be much more difficult to achieve."

Draco's eyes widened at this new revelation. "How—?"

"Because I know how to observe," Snape interrupted dryly. "Do not concern yourself with what I know. Just keep in mind that if you step any further out of line, Dumbledore may choose to expel you. You would then fail in your mission. Tread lightly, Draco. You may now return to your dorm."

The boy rose to his feet and began shuffling sullenly to the stairs. Before he reached them, he stopped and turned with a glare. "You know what I think? I think you're a spy for Dumbledore. I think that when the Dark Lord finds out, he'll make you pay."

Snape rolled his eyes. "You're opinion means nothing. The Dark Lord knows exactly what I do for him. You had best tend to your own concerns."

With a final glare, Draco descended the stairs to the boys' dormitories, leaving Snape alone in the room with his thoughts. In truth, Snape did not really want to think about it all any longer. Though he still desired vengeance for the Dark Lord's killing of Lily Evans, the stressful situation was wearing on him. It was becoming more difficult all the time to summon the will to deal with Dumbledore, Potter, Draco, and everything else. Sometimes he wished he could just leave it all behind.

At heart, however, Snape was a pragmatist. The situation was what it was. For now, he had better report to Dumbledore, as he had no doubt that word of what had happened tonight would get out by the morning.

* * *

As Snape had expected, news of the altercation in the Slytherin common room spread through the school like a forest fire fanned by a hot summer breeze, as such things were wont to do in an isolated school. At breakfast the next morning, there was little conversation on any other topic, and when Malfoy and his crew entered, all discussion ceased for a brief moment, and then started up again once he had made his way to his customary place at the Slytherin table, his cheeks flaming. The attention did not, of course, improve his disposition. That he and his friends had been quickly outclassed by the other faction did not help either.

In addition, again as Snape had expected, the Headmaster, having returned to the school after spending the day at the Ministry—since the action there, the Headmaster had been absent from the school more than he had been present—had come down heavily on Draco and his minions for their actions.

The heads of house had arrived in the common rooms early that morning and had delivered a summons for their respective houses to present themselves in the Great Hall that morning at eight o'clock for an announcement by the Headmaster. When Fleur and her friends had arrived in the Great Hall and the first thing which captured their attention was the hourglass jewel counters which kept track of the house points. In addition to what Snape had deducted the previous evening, Slytherin house's counter appeared to be missing an additional two hundred points. In one night, they had gone from what had been a virtual dead heat with Gryffindor for the lead, to lagging well behind third place Ravenclaw. Slytherin was now guaranteed to be a non factor in the house cup for the rest of the year.

The rumor quickly reached their ears that Dumbledore had had the members of Draco's gang in his office that morning at the crack of dawn and had berated them for the better part of an hour over their behavior. House points were not the only thing which Slytherin had been docked. Malfoy and his friends had also been given additional detentions—Malfoy's had been extended to the end of the year, if the rumor was to be believed—and they had all been threatened with expulsion should anything like this ever happen again.

The final punishment to be enacted against them was the suspension for the final game of the year for every member of the Slytherin Quidditch team who had been involved in the fracas—in other words every member except for Pucey, who had stayed clear of the fight. Pucey was quickly made the new Slytherin captain—it had previously been Montague—and been given the unenviable and nearly impossible task of fielding a team for their match against Hufflepuff only two and a half weeks hence. Needless to say the hapless Puffs were the most excited about the development, as they now appeared to have a legitimate shot of pulling off one victory that Quidditch year.

"What do you think Dumbledore will say?" Fleur asked Harry quietly as they waited for the Headmaster to rise to his feet.

"Probably something about house unity, I'd guess," Harry replied.

"McGonagall talked about house unity just before my sorting," Ginny spoke up from where she sat to the side.

"She does that with every new crop of students," one of the twins said. "I've heard it's largely the same speech every year."

"Looks like Malfoy either had his head up his arse, or he just doesn't care," Ron remarked snidely.

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other before saying in unison, "Or both."

The nearby table erupted in laughter, which included a few Hufflepuffs, who were seated just behind Harry. The smirks which were directed at Malfoy and the Slytherin table were not hidden and appeared to do nothing to improve his temper, which had been observed to be on a slow burn all morning.

"This house system seems to foster division and rivalry," Fleur remarked when the merriment died down.

"It does at that," Harry replied with a sigh. He had appeared to be withdrawn and thoughtful all morning.

"How does it work at Beauxbatons?" Hermione asked curiously.

"There are no houses at Beauxbatons," Fleur replied. "The student dorms are separated by year and gender. If you were a student there, you might be in class with anyone in your year, depending how the schedule works out."

"What about Quidditch?" Ron asked, much to the amusement of the rest of the table.

"Quidditch is not as big a deal at Beauxbatons as it is here." The sight of Ron sputtering at the notion was again amusing. "There is a recreation league, but students form their own teams and compete on weekends."

"You know, Ron," Neville piped up, "that might be better from a certain standpoint. There are likely quite a few more games that way."

"Though it wouldn't be as competitive," Ginny chimed in.

"It isn't," Fleur agreed. "But there are more games. At Hogwarts there are only six games per year. There are dozens at Beauxbatons, though you're right that the level of competition does not compare with Hogwarts."

Ron was left to contemplate on the merits of quality versus quantity and the reverse.

It was at that moment that Professor Dumbledore stood to address the students. The customary twinkling eyes and genial demeanor he usually showed when he rose to make announcements was missing, and in its place was a mask of extreme displeasure.

"By now you will all be aware of what occurred in the Slytherin common room last night," he began without preamble. Heads swiveled and eyes moved to rest upon Malfoy and his cronies, to which the Slytherin scowled, but bore the attention stoically.

"I believe that Professor McGonagall has often spoken of the fact that your house is like your family at Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued. "What happened last night is certainly not how family should treat one another.

"I am most disappointed. Nothing has occurred in all the forty years I have been Headmaster of this institution to compare with the actions of the members of Slytherin house last night. In fact, I am unaware of anything like this happening at any time since the inception of Hogwarts more than one thousand years ago."

The Headmaster paused for a brief moment as though considering his words. "You may not realize this, but the friendships you make at Hogwarts can sometimes be fleeting. You grow into adulthood, move on to careers and families, and lose touch with many dear friends of your youth. Now is a time to cherish and foster those friendships, not foster hatred and resentment. It is also not the time to throw curses at one another in anger.

"As you all likely already know, Professor Snape and I have dealt with those involved in an appropriate manner. I hope their punishment keeps them busy enough that their detentions, accompanied by their regular schoolwork and the other pressures of school, will keep them out of trouble for the rest of the year. I would strongly advise you all to use this coming summer to think about your actions, and prepare yourselves to return in the fall, those who are returning, as this sort of behavior will not be tolerated again."

Dumbledore gazed out over the students, his eyes now hard as agates. "If anything of this nature ever happens again, those responsible will find themselves expelled from this school. In addition, I know that it has been the practice to hex one another in the hallways when you think you can get away with it. From this time forward, any offensive wand use in any manner against another student, unless under supervised conditions in your classrooms or clubs, will result in suspension or expulsion, depending on the severity of the offense. I would advise those students involved with the altercation last night to tread most lightly—you are all on the brink, and any further behavior would send you over the cliff. Do not test our resolve in this matter."

With that final warning, the Headmaster once again took his seat and a firestorm of conversation rose throughout the room. It quieted slightly when, moments after Dumbledore's words, Malfoy and his closest companions—most of the Quidditch team did not follow him, presumably because they had already gotten in enough trouble for following his lead—stood and hurriedly exited the hall.

It was only a few more moments before Harry stood suddenly and motioning to his friends to follow him, moved out into the entry hall, following their Slytherin friends who had departed moments before. His purpose quickly became clear.

"Hey, wait up," he called, and in front of them, Daphne, Tracey, and most of the other Slytherin members of the club stopped and turned to regard his approach.

"Are you guys all right?" he asked.

"This _is_ Malfoy we're talking about here," Daphne replied, to the nods of the rest of her friends.

"I know," Harry said shortly, "but I'm getting more and more worried about him. He seemed to back off since winter break, and now he's doing stupid things all over again."

"Don't worry, Harry," Tracey replied. "We can handle the likes of Malfoy."

"Isn't that what you taught us to do?" Blaise spoke up.

"You're still members of the club," Harry replied fiercely. "We'll stand with you no matter what, against Malfoy or against Voldemort himself."

It was so like Harry, Fleur reflected, to always take responsibility and show his unwavering loyalty. Harry could easily have been sorted into the badger house, given his loyalty to anyone he considered a friend.

"If you need our help with anything," Harry continued, gesturing to everyone who was gathered around him, "let us know. I will not let Malfoy intimidate any of you. Just say the word, and I'll hang him from the Astronomy Tower by his underwear."

Amused grins met such a declaration, though predictably Hermione swatted him with mock disapproval. "Though I would not disagree that the little prick would deserve it, you'd only get in trouble. The Headmaster _did_ just outlaw that sort of behavior, you know."

"Only if he can pin it on me," Harry muttered. "And it would be worth it if it would protect our friends and take the ferret down a peg or two."

"Don't worry, Harry," Tracey insisted. "We can handle Malfoy."

Harry nodded. "But be sure to let us know if you need anything. I—_we_," he said, gesturing to his friends standing behind him, "will do whatever it takes to protect you."

"Why are all the good ones taken?" Daphne spoke up somewhat theatrically. "I wish you weren't already attached, Potter. I'd like to have a go at you myself."

Catching onto the girl's game, and amused at the way Harry blushed, Fleur made a great show of taking his arm possessively. "Sorry, girls. I'm afraid you'll have to find someone else. He's mine."

To Fleur's utter surprise, Harry answered with a devilish grin and turned to kiss Fleur on the forehead, much to the amusement of everyone watching. The twins even whistled and yelled out catcalls, chanting for a real kiss. His eyes sparkling with amusement, Harry leaned in a grazed Fleur's lips with the softest of kisses, prompting the cheers to escalate even higher.

"Thanks, guys, for your unwavering support," he said as he turned and grinned at the company. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I think Fleur and I need a little privacy."

The catcalls only escalated as they walked away, but Fleur did not mind. Even though the kiss Harry had given her had barely been a touch of his lips to hers, the emotion behind it had left her breathless.

Later that morning when she arrived to class, Fleur put up with the good-natured ribbing she received from her year mates with aplomb. The time they had spent deepening their relationship had been eminently satisfying and, other than a few whispered endearments, their communication had been accomplished entirely without the use of words. Fleur found that such communication was highly desirable, especially when it was done with the one with whom she now knew she was rapidly falling in love.

_Next: The Death Eater trials._

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Continued thanks to everyone who reads and reviews.

2. Ugh, what a week. I know I'm a week late in posting, but I have a very good reason. My laptop's hard drive bit the dust, and once I had it replaced, and found that it had cratered so badly that nothing could be recovered, I subsequently found out that my backup was corrupt. Just got to love when the company's software tools perform in such a stellar manner.

The upshoot of all this is that I lost all my work data (which isn't really such a huge loss IMO, though it does cause me mounds of extra work), and I lost this chapter. Luckily, as it's a work laptop, I keep my writing, other than whatever I am working on at the time, on an external drive, so it was only about half the chapter I had truly lost. Still, rewriting the last half of the chapter took about half the week.

3. Wow, that says a lot about my priorities if my fanfic writing is more important to me than my work files... [snicker]

4. I wrote the next chapter entirely on my tablet while my laptop was doing its best impression of a paperweight and found that for some reason, I seem to be able to get the first draft out better on the tablet, though to truly polish it, the laptop is much better. It's probably because there are fewer distractions on the tablet. Therefore, the next chapter is already written, and just needs to be tidied up. I'll be posting next week to get back on schedule.

5. For any who were surprised at Snape's reaction to the firefight, I've mentioned this to many in PM's and in my author's notes: my take is that Snape is a competent teacher, and as such, I think he's also in a strange sort of way (when you get past the fact that he's showing a horrible example to his house with his behavior) a conscientious head of house. He's just a bastard who discriminates against anyone who isn't a Slytherin, and Harry in particular. I've taken great pains to show in his thoughts that he really is a cretin with few redeeming qualities. But I have to portray him as a decent teacher in order to make even a meager justification of his continued tenure. There are things which happen down the road which require his continued presence at Hogwarts, so I just make do with whatever I have.

6. Finally, Snape, whatever else he is, is at the very least a true Slytherin, and that's part of the reason he was so disgusted with Draco's actions. He _must_ be able to see that Draco is anything but a Slytherin, and his thoughts about the ferret bear that out. Snape is committed to Voldemort's downfall, but he's trying to make sure Draco survives because he feels like he owes Lucius. It's certainly not for any love he has for Draco...


	47. Chapter 46 – Atrocities

**Previously: **Harry is concerned over Malfoy's behavior and speaks to Dumbledore. At the weekly club meeting, Daphne proposes that they formally organize themselves into a support organization for Harry, dedicated to Voldemort's defeat. After the meeting, the club members are confronted by Malfoy in the Slytherin common room, and a firefight breaks out. Snape arrives and berates Malfoy's gang, telling Malfoy he is not able to protect him any more. The Slytherin club members assure Harry that they are able to handle Malfoy.

******A/N: **I have increased the rating of this story to M because of this chapter. Malfoy senior's description of his crimes is a little more in depth than anything I've written before and, although it's not a complete description, it's sufficiently detailed that I felt the change was warranted. Please read with caution. If you don't want to read the more complete part of it, read down to Moody's comments, and then skip to where Scrimgeour says, "And how did Voldemort respond to what you had done?" If you just read the first part, you'll get a general idea of what he did without the further details. I didn't want to break up the continuity of the chapter by putting in warning, so please search for that phrase if you want to skip it. There is more of an explanation down in the author's notes.

* * *

**Chapter 46 – Atrocities**

Courtroom ten in the Ministry of Magic was not only famous for being the courtroom in which Harry Potter's infamous trial had been held the previous year, it was also the largest courtroom in the building. Therefore, it was generally used for the most sensational and difficult trials, or in other words those trials which generated the most interest, and which would involve the entirety of the Wizengamot.

It must be said that most members of Wizarding Britain had only a very imprecise idea of the workings of their own government. The Wizengamot served not only as the legislative body for the passing of new laws, but also as the judicial body for the trying of those who contravened said laws. The most common misconception was that the entire Wizengamot was required for every trial, which would truly be unwieldy, not to mention exhausting for its members. In reality, most of those day to day trials were held in front of a tribunal of Wizengamot members, who served as both judge and jury. These tribunals were rotated amongst the members at regular intervals, and the members of the tribunals were also mixed up so that the same members did not always serve on the same panels.

In addition, the main body of the Wizengamot served as its own appeals court, with an appeal not possible if one was tried in front of the entire body—in that case the trial had already been conducted by the highest court in the land. Therefore, appeals were not exactly common since the truth could easily be discovered with the use of Veritaserum if there was any doubt. Appeals were generally only initiated when a sentence was considered too harsh. If there was any doubt whatsoever that the Wizengamot would overturn the ruling, the convicted would almost always simply accept their punishment, as the penalties for wasting the Wizengamot's time could be very harsh.

Harry Potter's trial had certainly generated significant interest, in part because of the near constant spotlight on Harry Potter, but also because of the irregularity of such a minor case being held in front of the entire court. The trials of the Death Eaters captured in the Department of Mysteries were every bit as sensational, as they were mostly prominent members of society, and among their number were several who had escaped from Azkaban only months before.

For the public, many were watching closely to see how the Ministry under Madam Bones would deal with the problem, especially given the ineptitude and outright denial which had characterized the previous Ministry. It would not be incorrect to state that much was riding on the outcome of the trials, and not only because of the message it would send to Voldemort's followers. For many—more particularly amongst the Muggleborn community, the consequences of a lackadaisical approach could mean an exodus of its members to other, more hospitable, lands. Many remembered the terror of the last war, or had taken to heart the stories they had heard from those who had experienced it. Indeed, though the more rabid Purebloods would deny that Muggleborn had any useful function in their society, they were actually a substantial segment of the population. A mass exodus would cause untold problems within British Wizarding society.

Albus Dumbledore was not unaware of this fact. In fact, he had spent many years in the political arena forwarding this very same argument. The fact of the matter was that those who were most at risk from the newly risen dark lord would not be nearly as patient with their government as they were during his first rise. If they felt threatened and saw evidence that the government was incapable of protecting them—or unwilling—they would leave en masse. And though other areas of the world were not precisely the Utopia that most hoped to find when they left England there were certainly enough places which would welcome them with open arms. At the very least, they wherever they went, they would not be in danger from a dark lord who was set on exterminating them because of the circumstances of their birth.

As there were eleven Death Eaters to put on trial—Bellatrix being the only one who had escaped the Ministry—it had been decided to try them over the period of two days. Not only would this allow them to be tried in a timely, yet unhurried manner, but it would also allow the depravities of the first defendants to sink into the public's consciousness before the higher profile Death Eaters were tried on the second day. Trials were not always made public, but in such cases as this, it was deemed better to lay their dealings bare for all to see, so that the defendants were not only convicted in the Wizengamot, but also in the court of public opinion. The lesser names, such as Mulciber, Jugson and Crabbe set the stage, confessing under the influence of Veritaserum the actions necessary to gain the dark mark in addition to whatever subsequent crimes the Auror questioners had been able to pull out of them. It was the more prominent names of Macnair, Lestrange and Malfoy who generated the bulk of the interest, but in their cases, it was hoped that the words of the first Death Eaters would echo in the minds of those who were following the proceedings, further convicting those who might otherwise be insulated by their fortunes and names.

As the time slated for the beginning of the trial arrived, Kingsley Shacklebolt, in his new position as Head Auror, opened entered through the door to the courtroom, signaling to Albus that the prisoner was ready to be brought in. At his signal, Albus rose and approached the lectern.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot, once again we thank you for your attention and patience. I believe we are now ready for the final trial in this distasteful process." Dumbledore motioned to Shacklebolt, who was waiting patiently, and motioned to him. "Please bring in the prisoner."

At Shacklebolt's direction, the double doors to the courtroom opened and Lucius Malfoy, bound with chains, was brought in and deposited in the same chair which had once held Harry Potter only eight short months ago. The elder Malfoy was certainly not his perfectly coiffed and impeccably dressed self—his hair was askew, his eyes were bloodshot, and his robes, which may at one time have been fine, were dirty and rumpled. But his ever-present sneer of superiority was present and it was on full display for the body he now faced.

Once he was secured, Albus continued, "Thank you. I will now ask Rufus Scrimgeour, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to step forward and make the Ministry's case against Mr. Malfoy."

Albus turned and took his seat again, watching as the younger man took his place at the lectern. Scrimgeour peered, first at Malfoy, then about the chamber with some seriousness before he began.

"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, you have been brought before the Wizengamot today to answer to the charges brought against you. Those charges include murder, conspiracy to commit murder, rape, kidnapping, torture, extortion, bribery of government officials, and theft. Be advised that the use of Veritaserum has been authorized in your case and that you will be magically compelled to speak the truth. How do you plead?"

"I do not recognize the authority of this court to try me," Lucius replied with a snarl. "Everything I have done, has been done in the service of my Lord. _He_ alone has the ability to determine if I have done wrong. I defy you and this entire court!"

As he spoke, Malfoy raked his eyes defiantly over the courtroom, daring anyone to contradict his words. Albus could almost feel pity for the misguided man if he was not such a loathsome stain on the very fabric of society.

"Whether _you_ recognize our ability to try you or not, the fact of the matter is that you are in the Ministry's custody, chained to a chair, and charged with some very serious crimes. I believe I do not need to state exactly what conviction will entail for you." Scrimgeour's eyes bored into Malfoy, who was doing his best to appear unaffected. "Voldemort does not rule magical England, though he undoubtedly wishes he did. Until he does, you will have to be content with being tried by our laws, not whatever corrupt mockery he would install in its place. Again, I ask—how do you plead?"

Malfoy glared, but refused to speak. After a moment, Scrimgeour glanced at Albus, prompting him to rise.

"As the court is well aware, as evidenced by every Death Eater who has already been tried over the last two days, a refusal to enter a plea is considered by our laws to be the same as admitting the crime. An involuntary guilty plea will be entered into the records on Mr. Malfoy's behalf."

Nodding at Percy Weasley, who was again acting as scribe for the Death Eater trials, Albus once again resumed his seat.

Scrimgeour once again fixed his acid gaze on Lucius Malfoy. "Since you have not seen fit to enter a plea of your own free will, I suppose we may dispense with hearing your statement. Aurors, please administer Veritaserum to the accused."

For a moment Albus thought that Lucius would resist being dosed, following in the footsteps of all his compatriots. He glared up at the Auror holding the bottle and appeared ready to make some retort. The words died on his lips, however, and he seemed to realize that he would not escape this, regardless of his own wishes in the matter. A grimace appeared on his face, followed by his customary sneer. He made no further attempts to avoid his fate—he simply opened his mouth when required and accepted the potent potion. It was a remarkable piece of restraint and showed on the surface anyway, that Lucius was somewhat more civilized and smarter than the others—to a man they had had to be stunned and fed the potion.

Scrimgeour allowed a few moments for the potion to take effect before she motioned the attending Auror to move away from the accused.

"The defendant will now state his name."

"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy," he said in the typically detached voice associated with Veritaserum.

After meeting both Albus's and the Minster's eyes for a brief moment, Scrimgeour began the questioning.

"Mr. Malfoy, are you a Death Eater?"

"Yes."

"Auror Danvers, please expose the defendant's left arm."

The Auror stepped forward and, grasping Malfoy's arm—none too gently—raised the sleeve past his elbow. There on his arm, the skull and snake of the mark writhed against his skin, seeming agitated, if a mere mark could be termed as being so.

"Did you take this mark of your own free will?"

"Yes."

"Now, just so that we are completely clear," Scrimgeour pressed, "you were not coerced in any way to accept this mark?"

"I was not."

"To the best of your knowledge, can a person be coerced into accepting the Dark Lord's mark?"

"I do not know," Lucius replied.

"Do you know of anyone who has ever been forced to take the dark mark?"

"I do not."

"In your opinion, would the Dark Lord force a person to take his mark?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because the Dark Lord would never favor someone who did not follow him willingly. It is a mark of being chosen to enforce my lord's will to be favored with his mark."

"So a person cannot be marked unless he chooses it?"

"Is there a reason for this?" a voice rang out from the members of the Wizengamot.

Albus looked up to see Erastus Avery standing and witnessing the proceedings with an expression of extreme distaste on his face. Avery was another one of those who had escaped Azkaban after the first war by use of the Imperius curse defense. He was also, Albus suspected, a member of Voldemort's inner circle.

"What this man's opinions are do not prove anything at all, and we've already heard the testimony of his fellows. We know that they all took the dark mark willingly. Why are you rehashing old arguments?"

"We have indeed," Scrimgeour agreed. "But we are also setting a precedent. This man is one of the Dark Lord's closest confederates, and his opinion is vital to establishing a picture of what he requires of his followers."

"I agree with Avery," Selwyn spoke up from another part of the room. "It means nothing unless you suspect that Lucius Malfoy is You-Know-Who in secret and marked himself."

A titter of nervous laughter broke throughout the room as Avery had no doubt intended. Scrimgeour, however, was completely unaffected by the man's persistent questioning.

"It is obvious that Lucius Malfoy is _not _Voldemort. However, our questioning will show that he was high in the Dark Lord's councils, and his testimony is valuable in determining the requirements for receiving Voldemort's mark. If you feel that I am doing Mr. Malfoy a disservice with my line of questioning, you may, of course, pose any questions you like."

Though the two Death Eaters' countenances darkened, they made no further comment. It was, Albus reflected, a legitimate line of questioning, as Scrimgeour stated, while in truth proving nothing, as Selwyn and Avery had pointed out. Still, it was valuable, in the perceptions of the members of the Wizengamot, if nothing else. The Imperius curse defense had been widely used after the first war as a defense against prosecution, and the groundwork they were laying now would go a long way toward rendering that defense ineffective in the future, and doubly so if the accused bore the dark mark.

Scrimgeour turned his attention back on Malfoy. "Mr. Malfoy, you will answer the question. Only those committed to his cause may receive Voldemort's mark?"

"Yes."

"And then would it be safe to assume that the Imperius would be used for those unwilling?"

"Yes."

"And what must one do to prove oneself worthy of receiving the mark?"

"The Dark Lord requires a sacrifice."

Though Albus already knew of this and had learned from his questioning what Malfoy had done to gain his own mark, it still disgusted him. Moreover—and more importantly—though the Wizengamot had heard the testimony during the previous trials, the mere suggestion that Lucius had had to perform "a sacrifice" had many faces blanching, as the other Death Eaters had already relayed their own gruesome actions.

"What kind of sacrifice does he require?"

"Anything will do," Lucius stated, "as long as it benefits the Dark Lord, and falls within the proper definition of the word."

"Are some sacrifices considered to be better than others?"

"Yes."

"Please elaborate."

"The Dark Lord believes that the loss of innocence is by far the most worthwhile sacrifice a supplicant can make. However, he will accept donations of a more monetary nature, or even other sacrifices."

"As long as they can be properly termed as a sacrifice?"

"Yes."

"You mentioned the loss of innocence. What did you mean?"

"Anything which renders the supplicant to no longer be an innocent."

"Please give the Wizengamot some examples."

"Usually, the loss of innocence means that the candidate has killed someone, but it can also mean the passage to an adult, either from a physical or mental standpoint."

A murmur rose up in the courtroom, though Albus reflected that they truly should not have been surprised. To a man, every one of the previous defendants had reported a killing at the very least as being their action which had won them the dark mark. The room quickly quieted as Malfoy was still speaking.

"There have been other sacrifices, either accompanying the murder, or in place of it. The master's Death Eater candidates have raped—usually Muggles, or an occasional Mudblood we have been able to capture. Occasionally, a female Death Eater has given herself to the Dark Lord as her sacrifice."

The issue of rape had certainly come up before, though it had been surprising, but the other was new, not that Albus could be surprised at the revelation, either. Tom Riddle had been a charmer as a student, and Albus could well imagine his vanity at having women throwing themselves at him in this manner.

"But a murder is considered the best in the Dark Lord's eyes?"

"It is."

"Why?"

"Because it serves two purposes. It helps cleanse the stain for lesser beings, Muggles and Mudbloods, but it also shows the depth of commitment one has to the Dark Lord."

"Very well." Scrimgeour paused, while gazing about the courtroom to see if anyone else had any other questions to ask. No one took him up on his silent offer. "Now we will go into your specific actions. When did you receive your own mark?"

"The summer after my fifth year."

By this time everyone was quite familiar with the fact that Voldemort liked to brand his followers at a young age, and there were no gasps of surprise or outrage. Albus had known it for some time, in fact—the earlier a person was corrupted, the better in Tom Riddle's eyes, likely because they would more quickly arrive at the stage where they would almost literally do anything for him.

Scrimgeour was eying Malfoy for some moments with disgust before he continued, likely pausing to impress to the membership what Malfoy had just admitted—that he had essentially been a hardened criminal and murderer since the age of fifteen. "How did you come in contact with the Dark Lord?"

"I had known the Dark Lord personally for several years as my father was a Death Eater."

"And your father did not put any pressure on you to become a Death Eater?"

"It was expected," Malfoy replied, "but I was eager. I knew the Dark Lord would require me to accept the Dark Mark soon after my fifth year. I spent the entire year planning it."

"The entire year?" Scrimgeour interjected.

"It was for my lord," Malfoy intoned. "I needed to make certain what I did was acceptable to my lord."

"Very well. Please detail to the court exactly what crimes you committed to gain your own mark."

"There was a particularly disgusting Mudblood attending Hogwarts in my year. She was annoyingly smart, seemed to flaunt it at every opportunity, and had a rather distressing lack of respect for Purebloods of my standing. The final insult was that she was a Gryffindor.

"The day before school let out for the summer, I managed to corner her in one of the lesser used halls in Hogwarts. I put her under the Imperius curse and forced her to give me her address. Then I obliviated her and allowed her to return home. Two weeks later when the Dark Lord summoned me and offered the mark, I put my plan into action."

Albus surreptitiously glanced around the room, noting the looks of disbelief on the faces of many of those in the courtroom. It was apparent that this disgusting tale was, though perhaps not a surprise, it was at least still distressing to many in the room. There were likely many who had hoped that Malfoy's crimes would be, if not explainable, at least mild enough that they could fine him, or some other such petty punishment. The extent of his planning and the shadow of what was likely to come next was clearly shocking and disgusting to many of even those who supported Voldemort's aims.

"As I was still underage and could not apparate, the Dark Lord provided me with a portkey to the town in which the Mudblood lived. I quickly disillusioned myself and made my way to the address she had given me, letting myself into the house silently. As she was the oldest magical in the house, and therefore the most dangerous, I stunned and bound her, before doing the same to the rest of the family. I then brought them all into the same room, ennervated them and silenced them, before raping the women and killing the entire family by removing their heads. I left the girl for last. The look in her eyes as she watched as I violated and put to death each member of her family was exquisite. I made it very clear to her that _she _was the reason why I had targeted her family. It was her fault. Of course, they would have died eventually anyway—such disgusting filth must be purged for the good of us all. My lord was most pleased when I provided him with the memory of the event. He was even more impressed when I presented to him the heads of the family."

By this time, most of those listening had decidedly green casts to their countenances, and not a few were vomiting. Some had even managed to conjure buckets before they lost their last meal, though many had not had sufficient foresight. This crime was truly the most disturbing account they had yet heard. Unfortunately, Malfoy had many more to relate which would almost be its equal.

Scrimgeour was not finished, however. He waited until those who had lost their composure recovered somewhat before he turned his attention back to Lucius Malfoy.

"Mr. Malfoy, what was the name of the girl whose family you murdered?"

"Deborah Grantley."

"Auror Moody, are you aware of this crime?"

Alastor, who had been sitting in one of the gallery seats, rose and eyed the director. "Aye, I do. We were called in when the dark mark was spotted over the house. We found the bodies of the families mutilated almost beyond recognition. It was difficult to even identify them, and we never found anything which would help us determine who had done it." Both Moody's eyes were fixed upon Malfoy, an expression such as one would use for vermin adorning his face. "It does my old heart good to see their murderer finally brought to face justice for his crimes."

Scrimgeour turned back to Malfoy. "Please tell the court about the family, and explain just exactly what you did to them."

"Besides the parents, there were four children. Deborah was the oldest, and then she had a brother two years younger, another sister due to start Hogwarts that September, and a younger sister."

"How old was the youngest sister?"

"I do not know."

"Estimate."

"Probably five or six years of age."

"And you raped the little girl too?" an outraged voice sputtered from the upper sections of the courtroom."

"I did."

More vomiting ensued at Lucius's words, but this time Scrimgeour did not allow for any respite. "That makes a total of four females. Either you must have incredible stamina, or you used magical means to assist you."

"I planned everything in advance," Lucius stated, and Albus thought he could detect a hint of pride through the Veritaserum. "I took stamina potions and lust potions to make sure I could finish the demonstration of my devotion to my lord without fail."

"What exactly did you do to them?"

"I used a dark cutting curse on the two males to castrate them, and allowed them to bleed to death while I dealt with the females."

"How long did it take for the males to die?"

Malfoy shrugged. "The boy died while my attention was fixed on the women. The father lived long enough to see me take each of his daughters at least once. He may have died before I got to the wife—I am not certain."

Outraged murmurs began rising throughout the chamber. Albus, sensing the mood of the Wizengamot was turning dark, stood and motioned for silence.

"Members of the Wizengamot," he stated, "I understand your fury over Mr. Malfoy's testimony, but I would urge you all to stay calm. Though listening to what he has done is repulsive, _it is necessary_. Once his crimes have been brought to light, his punishment will be determined. Please wait until then to express your fury."

Almost reluctantly, the Wizengamot soon quieted and Scrimgeour was able to continue. "And what did you do to the women?"

"As I stated," Malfoy continued in his monotone, "I raped them, used cutting curses on various parts of their bodies when they struggled too much. I also used the Cruciatus on each of them several times, including the women while I raped them,."

"You cast the torture curse on the women _as_ you were raping them?" an incredulous voice called out from the upper reaches of the courtroom.

"I did."

"Tell the court why," Scrimgeour commanded.

"Because they twitched and writhed most delightfully when under the curse. That and it caused them even more pain and humiliation."

By this time the murmurs had begun again, and Albus was certain that there was nothing he could do to settle the Wizengamot. This was far beyond what any of his fellows had admitted to, and the mood was changing—if Malfoy were sent to prison and was ever to be released, Albus was certain there was now a county full of vigilantes who would be all too eager to end his miserable existence.

"Please continue, Mr. Malfoy."

"Once the potions I took had run out and I my stamina began to flag, I relieved the entire family of their heads. The men were, of course, already dead, and of the women, I believe the younger girls were already catatonic, though the mother was barely conscious. I kept Deborah for last. When she surrendered her head to me, I watched as the light left her eyes forever."

Again Scrimgeour paused and looked out over the courtroom. It was interesting, Albus thought, that even those who were suspected of being Death Eaters—and who likely had committed similar crimes of their own—appeared pale because of the testimony just given. Scrimgeour allowed a moment before he finally looked back at Malfoy, and expression of utter disdainful repugnance etched upon his features.

"And how did Voldemort respond to what you had done?"

"The Dark Lord told me he had never seen such ingenuity and devotion. I was given the dark mark immediately." This time the pride in his voice was unmistakable.

"Didn't you feel anything while you were committing those unspeakable acts against those poor people?" an outrage Madam Longbottom demanded.

"They were nothing more than vermin," Malfoy replied. "Such as they, were nothing more than a stain upon our society. They must be purged in any manner possible. My lord commended me for removing two such, and for preventing two more unworthy vermin from entering our world. Doing it in such a way sends an object lesson to the rest of them that this is what they can expect."

The courtroom descended into a shocked silence. There was no more doubt at all that Malfoy had always been a believer, and was far more deranged than anyone had ever imagined. Albus almost wished that the former Minister were here to hear this account of his most prominent backer's confession, to learn what Malfoy's blood money had bought him.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot," Scrimgeour spoke up again into the silence. "_This_ is what we as a society have allowed to escape judgment all those years ago when Voldemort first fell.

"This... this... vile, sadistic, remorseless murderer has been allowed to exist without punishment for far too long." Scrimgeour's sharp denunciation thundered throughout the room, up into the rafters, only to echo down into the room again, a sharp and blistering indictment on them all. He paused for a moment, glaring about the room, almost daring anyone to contradict him. No one did. It appeared that his denunciation had reached even those who were hardened supporters of Voldemort and caused more than one head to lower in shame.

"Mr. Malfoy has many other crimes to relate today," Scrimgeour continued in a lower—yet no less outraged—tone of voice. "Remember that as he continues to relate his crimes. Remember that we as a society have failed to take action to ensure he does not continue to kill, rape, maim, and torture in his master's name. Listen to his words and feel your shame."

Rufus Scrimgeour was not considered and eloquent man; he was more of a man of action. Yet Albus could not remain unaffected by the man's passionate words. It seemed no one could. With this opening, coupled by the words of the accused himself, Albus knew that the war of words had been won almost before it had begun.

* * *

The testimony of Lucius Malfoy continued for the next two hours, during which time the man continued to recount as many of his crimes as the interrogators had been able to uncover. The sickness of the man disgusted most of those in attendance and it was clear that whatever happened, he would not walk from this room a free man. Malfoy had been involved in some manner or another in almost every major manner of crime, and in particular, every one with which he had been charged. Many other acts he had committed had been every bit as sickening as the acts of his first crime and by the end of his testimony, most of those listening were almost inured to the depravity and viciousness of which he was clearly capable.

As she listened to his initial account of his deeds, Amelia, found herself in a rage. Her brother and his family had died at the hands of these animals and while their fate had not been as gruesome as some, Amelia could still feel the helpless feeling of impotence she had felt on being informed that her only brother had been murdered along with his family, with only a small child surviving the carnage. These disgusting people did not deserved to live. With Scrimgeour's surprisingly powerful and passionate words, Amelia found that she had been given an opportunity to ensure that every one of these men would pay the price for what they had done.

Once Malfoy had finished giving his testimony, he was given the counter agent and removed from the room. He remained stoic as he was led out, though it was clear that it was at least partially a show. The way that many of his erstwhile supporters would not meet his eyes must have told him just exactly how his words had been received.

Conviction was a foregone conclusion—every right thinking person could not with any conscience whatsoever conclude his actions had been anything less than the heinous work of a monster, masquerading as a civilized man. And those who agreed with Lucius Malfoy in principle or in deed could hardly say so in front of the world. Even the Selwyns of the world—he had been remarkably silent and stoic throughout the testimony given by his fellows—would dare to say anything in his defense.

When the prisoner had exited the room, Scrimgeour once again paused as though assessing the mood of the Wizengamot. "You have all heard the testimony of Lucius Malfoy, heard the accounts of his deeds from his own lips. Though I cannot imagine anyone condoning his actions, I will put the question before the Wizengamot. Is there anyone in this chamber who believes that Lucius Malfoy is _not_ guilty of the charges which have been levied against him?"

This time, unlike the previous trial for Sirius Black, there was not one who even appeared to be contemplating speaking up in the man's favor.

"I apologize, member, for the sordid details I brought out with my questioning the past two days. It was sickening to say the least, but I believe it is incumbent upon all of us to understand exactly what we are dealing with. I also thank you all for listening with your conscience and acting in the best interests of the entire Wizarding world. In that matter of the charges against Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, I declare him guilty of all charges, in accordance with those verdicts which fell upon his compatriots, the other ten Death Eaters."

As Scrimgeour fell silent, this time the chamber remained silent with him—it was not an unexpected verdict after all, given all they had heard over the past two days.

"Then we shall move on to sentencing," Scrimgeour declared.

Knowing this was her cue to act, Amelia stood. "Director Scrimgeour, if I may speak for a moment."

"Of course, Madam Minister," Scrimgeour said, and with a short bow, he backed away from the lectern and sat.

Amelia took her position behind the wooden structure and paused to look out over the chamber. It was perhaps a little unusual for a sitting Minister to ask to address the Wizengamot in such a manner in a criminal trial, but Amelia thought she detected more curiosity than annoyance over her minor breach of normal procedure. Fudge had been Minister for more than ten years, Amelia thought wryly, and some of the things he had done, including a trial for underage magic use and changing the time and location for said trial with hardly any notice, were not among his most unusual offenses.

"Members of the Wizengamot," she began after she considered what she wanted to say for a moment, clarifying her thoughts and deciding what she wanted to say, "I thank you for your attendance today, and your indulgence. I had thought to allow the Wizengamot to follow its normal deliberation process in regard to these men, but I found I cannot stay silent.

"The fact of the matter is that we have heard these last few days, criminals, disgusting hardened murderers and thugs, who have related their various crimes before us. The things these men have admitted to doing in the service of their so-called lord should fill everyone with not only disgust and revulsion, but also with a righteous fury!"

Amelia paused and looked out over the courtroom. The members almost appeared to be riveted in place, their eyes affixed upon her and their ears trained upon her voice. Amelia could even see the hint of tears in some eyes. She had always thought the Wizengamot was a self-serving, emotionless group, except when it came to their own interests. Today, however, it was clear that few remained unaffected by what had transpired.

"How many people's lives have been changed irrevocably by the actions of these men?" she cried. "How many have had their lives ended before their time, and under the most horrific circumstances? How long have we allowed this cancerous filth to grow unchecked in our society?

"It is my opinion that we can allow this to continue no longer. It is time for us, as leaders of our society, to once and for all declare that such filth as these men, will no longer be tolerated. It is time for us to forever take a stand and act in the best interests of _all_ of our society. I motion that the punishment for the crimes these men have committed to be death. Let us push them all through the veil and be done with their evil."

Amelia watched as those in the chamber digested her words. There was no outcry; there was no dissent; it seemed as though it had been an expected motion. A death sentence was not precisely common, but nor was it unheard of. For crimes such as this, it could not be a surprise, though the Death Eaters themselves likely expected to simply be thrown back into Azkaban where Voldemort could simply free them again.

Tiberius Ogden stood and motioned for him to do so.

"Madam Minister, I believe that we can all agree that the crimes these men committed are especially barbarous, and please do not suppose for a moment that I am speaking on their behalf. I simply wish to sure of our course, and knowing your personal history with You-Know-Who's followers, I wish to make certain that your judgment is not being affected by this."

It was a reasonable question. "How can anyone be certain that they are being completely objective?" Amelia asked rhetorically. "Yes, the deaths of my brother and his family have affected my life and not a day goes by when I do not think of them. And my niece Susan is a daily reminder of what could have been, had the evil of Voldemort and his followers not existed.

"However, I believe that all who commit crimes such as this should be required by society to pay the price for their actions. I will remind you that none of these men were involved in the murder of my brother and his family."

Amelia glared up at the elderly man, daring him to contradict her, but Ogden merely nodded and continued to watch her.

"But even more than my brother's family, my thoughts are more with Deborah Grantley and her family. The entire family was murdered and had unspeakable acts perpetrated on them, all so that a sadistic murderer could please another sadistic murderer. Should we give the likes of Lucius Malfoy another chance to commit such vile acts in the future?"

"Minister Bones," Alaric Morgan spoke up, "we cannot condemn men to death to prevent future crimes."

"Nor do I suggest we do so," Amelia replied. "But I believe that the particulars of these cases speak for themselves. Some may call this Old Testament judgment, but I truly believe that these men have provoked our society to the point where if we don't respond by exacting the harshest punishment possible, we do a disservice to us all. We _must_ hold these men accountable in equal measure to the severity of their crimes."

"If I may, Minister Bones," Sirius said.

Amelia motioned for him to speak, while wondering what he would say. As a man who had been incarcerated for many years unjustly, he may very well have a different take on her motion.

"Thank you." Sirius turned and addressed the chamber. "I believe that the Minister is right in this instance. These men deserve to die. To do otherwise is to betray those who they have harmed by their actions, not to mention those who have died fighting against their evil. If we cannot stand firm and condemn these men for what they have done, we invite others to follow in their footsteps. We invite Voldemort to even greater boldness if we do not do what we must."

"I am surprised to hear that from _you_, Black," Selwyn interrupted with a sneer.

"Perhaps," Sirius agreed pleasantly. "I suppose that you are all considering my time spent with the Dementors." His tone was genial, but his demeanor was solemn. "I cannot argue the point—if Minister Bagnold and Director Crouch had decided I was worthy of different treatment, then I would not be here today speaking to you.

"But you must acknowledge that the situation is clearly different from mine. I was never given the benefit of a trial. These men have. If they were not worthy of death, their own words would have exonerated them, as mine exonerated me. The depravity of their crimes leaves us one option. We must do as the Minister suggests and exact the ultimate price for their crimes."

Sirius sat back down, and Amelia looked on with relief.

"What does the Chief Warlock think?" Tiberius Ogden asked, with an eye towards Dumbledore.

Though reluctantly to Amelia's eye, Dumbledore stood and faced the Wizengamot. Not a word was said as the entire body's attention was fixed on the respected wizard. Dumbledore was known to be somewhat of a pacifist, one who respected the sanctity of life and preferred reconciliation to vengeance, regardless of his defeat of Grindlewald all those years ago. Here was one who could, if he chose, derail her proposal.

"Esteemed members, I believe you have all heard me proclaim the benefits of the doctrine of forgiveness in this very chamber, and I must say that I do believe that everyone should be given the opportunity to atone for their actions and learn to live better lives.

"Unfortunately, I believe that these men are beyond any reasonable expectation of atonement."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Amelia allowed herself to relax slightly.

"There comes a time when a man's deeds progress to the point where he is beyond our ability to reach him. If these men showed even a hint of remorse for their actions which was not motivated by fear of reprisal or consternation at being discovered, then I may feel different. They have not. They have been defiant to a man. We should consign them to whatever deity exists beyond this life to judge."

"And if there is no such deity?" a voice rang out from the top tiers of the room.

Dumbledore gazed up into the gallery at whoever had spoken. There was not a hint of anything other than seriousness and slight sadness on his face. "Then we should confine them to the oblivion as they so richly deserve."

With that the aged Headmaster once again sat, and the chamber fell silent. There were many thoughtful expressions, some filled with fear and a few etched with disquiet. What was clear was that there were few who were unmoved.

Scrimgeour once again took the lectern and stood before the Wizengamot. "Thank you to all who have spoken today. I now ask the Wizengamot to render its judgment. Those who vote to sentence the defendants to death please light the tip of your wands and raise them. Those who believe some lesser sentence is warranted will leave their wands down."

A moment passed before there was any movement in the chamber. When there was, it began slowly and picked up speed as more and more members began to raise their wands. There were certainly some whose support was expected—Augusta Longbottom, whose son and daughter-in-law would finally come closer to being avenged with the deaths of the Lestrange brothers; Tiberius Ogden, a staunch and courageous ally throughout the years; Albus Dumbledore, who had just made his opinion known before the entire court; and Elphias Doge, longtime friend and supporter of the Headmaster, and a good, if cantankerous man. But there were also other supporters who were not quite so expected, such as most of the neutral bloc and, perhaps most surprisingly, Alaric Morgan, former candidate for Minister, who it had appeared was doing all he could to thwart them. Amelia wondered just what his game was.

When the votes were tallied, Amelia felt her tension drain—the sentence had been accepted by far more than the two-thirds necessary to authorize an execution.

"Thus, the Wizengamot has spoken," Scrimgeour intoned. "At this time I would like to make one final proposal. The threat of V-Voldemort," Scrimgeour stammered over the name slightly, "is very real, as he proved only a few short months ago. We cannot risk these men being released by their master once again. I motion that the condemned be executed today."

A cacophony of voices rose from the midst of the Wizengamot, mostly amongst the darker families, Amelia noted. She could not help but wonder if Voldemort's plan had always been to wait until his followers were condemned to Azkaban before affecting a rescue. He would have no reason to suspect that they would be executed, given their standing and influence in society. If they were executed today as Rufus had suggested, then Voldemort would have no opportunity to secure their release.

"I will not be party to such barbarity," Selwyn bellowed into the din.

"What, does the scent of blood suddenly make you squeamish, Selwyn?" Sirius jibed at the apoplectic man. "Given you past... associations, I would have thought it would be right up your alley."

Selwyn sneered back at him. "You are not even worthy of my attention, Blood Traitor."

"And I would one day expect you to join your buddy Lucius in the death chamber."

A collective gasp went up in the chamber—both men had just committed a serious breach of etiquette in the Wizengamot.

To Amelia's side, Albus stood before the disagreement could escalate any further. "Let us remain civil, shall we?"

Selwyn grumbled and shot Sirius a dirty look, but the irrepressible Marauder did nothing but grin in return.

"If there are any others who wish to speak on this matter, please do so." When no one indicated their desire to speak, Scrimgeour continued, "Very well, we shall vote on the proposal. Again, all in favor of immediate execution will raise their wands."

This time the response was much quicker, and turned out to be much the same as the previous vote had gone. Precedent had been broken. The Death Eaters would be put to death that very day.

* * *

Whatever Sirius Black had expected that day, it was not that the Death Eaters would pay for their crimes so quickly. Madam Bones's appeal was not unexpected, nor was the fact that they had been able to get guilty verdict. Their crimes had spoken for themselves, after all, and Sirius had already had an idea of exactly what the investigators had uncovered, as Albus had been very forthright in letting him know.

Now as the prisoners were led back into the room as a group, Sirius allowed himself to feel a hint of satisfaction that they would finally pay for the crimes which they had committed. Finally, James and Lily would receive some measure of justice for what had been done to them, even though none of these condemned men had actually cast the spell which had ended his friends' lives. But they had, by accepting and supporting Voldemort, and making him into a feared Dark Lord, played a part.

Sirius studied them as they walked into the courtroom to stand in front of the Wizengamot. To a man, they appear to be confident—even a little on the cocky side, if he could use such a term. They were murderers to a man, and they all obviously held a great deal of trust for Voldemort. He was their master, was he not? He had escaped death once and returned to once again terrorize the world; why should he not extricate them from their current predicament?

Smiling a slow and cocky grin of his own, Sirius caught Lucius Malfoy's eyes and just barely retrained himself from making a rather vulgar gesture at the arrogant Pureblood. Yes, Lucius Malfoy was in for a very rude awakening indeed.

When the prisoners had been brought to a stop, Dumbledore, as Chief Wizard, rose to pronounce the will of the Wizengamot.

"Let the accused stand forward." The men were pushed forward by their Auror escorts, and reluctantly faced the lectern of the courtroom. "Lucius Malfoy, Augustus Rookwood, Rudolphus Lestrange, Rastaban Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Magnus Mulciber, Gerald Goyle, Vincent Crabbe Sr., Walden Macnair, Antonio Jugson, and Judas Nott, the Wizengamot has deliberated your cases based on the testimony you have given. The judgment of this body is that you have all been found guilty of all charges which have been levied against you."

Sirius was watching closely for any reaction, and he was largely disappointed, as most of the men stood stoically as the verdict was announced to them, with only Goyle swallowing heavily and closing his eyes. From Lucius Malfoy, who Sirius was specifically watching, there was nothing more than a slight grimace, no doubt from the damage to his precious reputation, rather than any sort of remorse.

"Furthermore, I would inform you of this body's revulsion regarding the testimony you have so unwillingly given." Dumbledore paused and gazed out over the eleven men, disgust and contempt evident in his disapproving glare. "You have all passed well beyond the boundaries of any civilized being and have earned the disgust of society which you have so richly earned.

"In the matter of the sentence which shall be imposed for your heinous crimes, it is the judgment of this body that you be taken to the veil room in the Department of Mysteries and sent through the veil. The sentence is death, and it is to be carried out immediately."

_That_ got the Death Eaters' attention, and for the first time Sirius was able to see a reaction from most of them. To a man they paled, while a few expressions of terror appeared several faces. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the most visual and verbal reaction was that of Lucius Malfoy.

"What?" he screamed once the implications of the sentence had made their way through his consciousness. "How dare you? Do you not know who I am?"

"You are a traitor to civilized society and a murder, amongst many other things," Dumbledore replied with distaste.

"My master shall hear of this!" Malfoy screamed, though Sirius could detect a desperate hysteria in his voice. "He will storm the very gates of—"

"You have had your say, Mr. Malfoy," said Dumbledore in an icy cold tone of voice as he put his wand down, the silencing spell once again bringing order to the courtroom. He then looked down at the other Death Eaters. "Do any of you have any statements to make before the sentence is carried out? Perhaps a statement of remorse for what you have done might be appropriate?"

"You'll get no such pleasure from us," Rastaban Lestrange growled. "Our Lord's work will continue long after we are gone. One day he will cleanse the land of Mudbloods and Muggles, and we will be heroes in his new order."

"I believe I will have something to say about that, Mr. Lestrange."

He looked expectantly down at the Death Eaters, but no one made any more move to speak; the Lestranges, Malfoy—who had now stopped trying to speak—Macnair, and Dolohov, all gazed defiantly up at the Wizengamot, while the rest appeared shell-shocked.

"Very well," Dumbledore finally stated, before motioning to guarding Aurors. "Take the prisoners down to the veil room and hold them there for the Wizengamot's arrival."

* * *

A few moments later Sirius had made his way to the veil chamber along with more than half of the Wizengamot. Notably absent were those who were suspected of being Death Eaters, or those who had pled the Imperius curse from the first war. With Dumbledore, along with a sizable contingent of the Ministry's Auror force present, it was clear that there was to be no last minute rescue staged by Voldemort's forces. These men would die here this day, and the world would be made a safer place because of it.

As they stood in front of the veil—Sirius found a place near it so as to witness the departure of Lucius Malfoy from this world—Sirius looked at the looming device with some disquiet. Though the Ministry studied such things, he imagined that not much was truly known of the veil, nor exactly where the Death Eaters would appear when they were forced through. His proximity to it was highly unsettling. The rent black veil which hung over the arch fluttered and eddied in an unfelt breeze, and if he listened closely enough, Sirius almost felt like he could hear the whisper of eldritch voices. On one occasion, he almost fancied he could hear James's voice among the whispers, which caused a shiver to run down his spine. Sirius hoped—believed—that he would one day see his friend again, and he looked forward to the day when the marauders would be unleashed upon the afterlife with pleasure. But he was not eager for it to happen again soon; he hoped for a long life watching over James's son, watching him grow and live his life in happiness. It also followed that he hoped that this would help atone for his mistakes the night James and Lily had been slain, but that was more a thought of his subconscious mind.

The prisoners were brought in one by one bound in chains and pushed through the veil. It seemed like some had come to life in the past few moments, as they struggled against their fate, while others faced it more calmly. Strangely those who fell in either category were not necessarily those whom Sirius would have expected.

Finally, Lucius Malfoy was brought in, the last of the condemned men. He glared wildly around the room, clearly attempting to show bravado, while desperately hoping that there was someone—anyone—who would extract him from his predicament. Of course all of his confederates had chosen not to attend, and no one currently in the room would reach a hand out, except to push him through all that much sooner.

As he approached the veil, struggling against his bonds and the Aurors who were forcing him forward, Sirius was not able to resist one last dig against the man who was unwilling related to him by marriage, and who he had hated for years.

"You filthy murderer," he snarled at the blond Death Eater. "I hope you rot in hell for what you have done."

Lucius Malfoy fixed his glare upon Sirius and his mouth lifted in one final sneer. "You will soon join me, Black. The Dark Lord will make sure if it. You and your pathetic little godson."

"Maybe I will join you," Sirius agreed amiably. "But I rather suspect that Voldy will beat me there."

"You're delusional if you think a brat could defeat the greatest Dark Lord of all time," Malfoy snapped.

"I don't think so," Sirius said with a grin. "Hadn't you heard? There's a prophecy which foretells that my godson will kick your master's arse. Have an enjoyable afterlife."

Malfoy did not reply. He ceased struggling and did nothing more than smirk at Sirius as he was led to the veil. In a moment, the Aurors pushed him forward and he disappeared, never to be seen again. It was done.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Thanks to everyone who continues to read, and especially those who leave a comment.

2. First, I expect that most of those reading this will be thinking of the description of Malfoy's crimes and I'm rather expecting it to generate a lot of comments, though I'm not sure if I'll be castigated or otherwise. I've had the entire outline done for many months now, but I've only had the vaguest idea of what Malfoy had actually done to get his dark mark, though I knew in general terms. Once I began writing it, it became much more than I had ever anticipated. Though it was almost repulsive even to write it, I decided to keep it the way it was.

Why, you ask? Because I wanted to show just exactly what kind of animals these Death Eaters are, and more specifically, what a sadistic scumbag Malfoy is. While this perhaps could have been done if I'd left it a little more vague, it really would have diluted the impact upon the story as a whole. Now all of magical Britain is aware of exactly what the Death Eaters are capable of...

3. I'm well aware of the fact that JKR did not go into depravities like this, partially because at least in name this is a story for youth, but she certainly insinuated it. Since this story has stepped firmly into the realm of AU—nothing from here on in bears even a cursory resemblance to canon—you can consider the Death Eaters, and Malfoy in particular OOC if you like. Personally, I fully believe that the Death Eaters of canon are capable of all this and more. Whether they actually did or not is up to JKR to decide.

4. For those of you who are wondering, yes, Draco is a chip off the old block—he's been taught by his father and is every bit as capable of the same acts as Lucius. Since this story ends before the end of fifth year, he will have very little time to actually commit the kinds of atrocities as his father has done. For those of you now worried even more about Hermione, you're right to be so. But before you fret to much, please remember that as a writer I firmly believe in the good guys winning and the bad guys getting what's coming to them.

5. For the more astute canon sage, you will note that Avery is in the Wizengamot and was not involved in the Department of Mysteries battle. His place was taken by Goyle senior. Thus all four Slytherin boys in the same year have now lost their fathers—Malfoy, Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle. It has a sort of symmetry which I preferred, and I always wondered why, with Crabbe and Goyle seemingly joined at the hip, Goyle was not at the Ministry in canon. Maybe I'm reading too much into it.

6. Yes, I'm also aware that Dumbledore likely surprised many of you in this chapter. But really, I've read lots of HP fanfiction, and Dumbledore is often portrayed as someone who will want to forgive and redeem anyone no matter what they have done. In my opinion, that is rather unrealistic. Even if you don't like Dumbledore, you have to admit that he's _not_ stupid. Wanting to redeem a man who had just admitted to such repulsive actions is equal parts stupid and naive in my book, whether or not you support capital punishment. I'm trying to make Dumbledore realistic and make his actions make sense, though I will freely admit that sometimes it's difficult given what JKR has given us to work with.


	48. Chapter 47 – Reactions

**Previously: **Death Eater trials. Lucius Malfoy is brought before the Wizengamot, and testifies about the crimes he has committed. After his is convicted, Madam Bones makes an appeal before the Wizengamot, pushing for the death penalty in the cases of all the Death eaters. The Wizengamot votes to put them to Death, and the sentence is carried out immediately. Sirius has words with Malfoy as he is pushed through the veil.

* * *

**Chapter 47 – Reactions**

An emotionally drained Sirius Black left the Department of Mysteries after the executions, eager to return to Hogwarts and indulge in a glass of firewhiskey while avoiding everyone else for the rest of the evening. In fact, a bottle might be infinitely preferable, considering some of the things he had heard that day. It had certainly been a trying two days and he was looking forward to losing himself again in the routine of teaching and the pleasure of watching his godson grow, not to mention the possibilities for teasing that Harry's relationships with his beautiful ladies provided. But even such thoughts, though enjoyable, were not enough to improve his mood.

Of the events of the previous two days, he wished to think as little as possible, even while knowing they would dominate his thoughts for days to come. It was gratifying that some of the men who had caused so much evil had finally paid the price for their actions. Those particular men would never again perform their vile acts on another innocent—at least he could take solace in that. But on the other hand, one did not condemn a man to death lightly, much less condemn almost a dozen, regardless of how vile and deserving of death those men had been. A condemnation of that nature required thought and careful deliberation and though Sirius felt that the Wizengamot had acted with prudence and the appropriate seriousness in this case, the fact was that he had still been involved in committing men to death, and that would take its toll. How he wished he could just forget about it, or become as conscienceless as such a man as Lucius Malfoy. It would certainly have helped his peace of mind, regardless of how morally repugnant it would make him.

And Sirius _was_ disturbed. He had known Lucius Malfoy, in particular of all the man who had been tried, for quite some time—since before Hogwarts in fact. The man had been betrothed to his cousin Andromeda after all, or at least until she had managed to escape through her marriage to Ted Tonks. Because of that, he had been associated with Lucius through their families, though most of the time Sirius had avoided him, much as he had avoided the rest of his family. Even as a teenager Lucius had been self-absorbed and haughty, openly supporting the Pureblood crap that so many in their circle saw as being akin to the word of God.

But the simple fact of the matter was that regardless of how Sirius had always known that Lucius was scum and that he was undoubtedly a murderer and more—as all those who followed Voldemort inescapably were—Sirius had never truly imagined just how deep the man's depravity descended. Him and his associates. The testimonies they had been forced to give over the past two days were sickening, and though Sirius had managed to keep his composure and the contents of his stomach, at times it had been difficult. Hence his desire for solitude.

When the lift opened he stepped out into the atrium. It was quiet for the most part, the business of the day having been largely completed, and the scrums with the reporters also having concluded some time earlier. He did not envy Dumbledore or Bones, both of whom had been front and center after the executions had been carried out.

Crossing the tiled floor—and noting the still unrepaired damage from Dumbledore's epic struggle with Voldemort—Sirius made for the Floos. He was just about to step in, when he saw a familiar face.

"Sirius," Hestia Jones said as she caught sight of him.

"Miss Jones," Sirius replied, making an exaggerated bow.

Hestia giggled at his gallantry, and with a rather silly grin, Sirius offered her his arm, all thoughts of returning to Hogwarts now gone in favor of the prospect of some pleasant company. "Shall we depart together, Madam? I know of a nice diner not far from the Ministry where we can get some really great burgers."

Hestia smirked at him and took his arm. "You really do know how to wine and dine a lady, don't you?"

"Nah, that's for later. It's always been my policy that there is no wining and dining on the first date."

They laughed together as they started walking toward the exit. "So, is that what this is?" Hestia asked. "A first date?"

Instantly Sirius sobered—he had not meant to put it in such a way. "How about we call it two friends just spending time together? To be honest, I was going to go back to Hogwarts with a bottle of Ogden's to keep me company. But I realized that a friend is better company than a bottle of liquid. And I _do have_ to teach classes tomorrow, after all."

She shot him a bit of a sidelong glance which he could not interpret, but she spoke and distracted him before he could give it any thought. "Rough day, was it?"

A pained grimace settled on his face. "Oh, all in a day's work. You know—bring in the bad guys; give them a fair trial—which I myself didn't receive; then listen to all the disgusting things they have done to people and gotten away with for the past twenty years. Finally, you sentence them to death and push them through the veil, all in time for dinner."

The venom in his voice almost surprised even Sirius himself, but Hestia merely looked at him with sympathy, before she glanced around. "Let's continue this discussion once we arrive at the diner."

Sirius nodded. Since they had exited from the building, he had been speaking a little too openly. There did not appear to be anyone nearby who was listening in to their conversation, but he had been an Auror for some time after the war and had grown up in the magical world—he should know better than to speak of it openly where anyone could overhear.

They arrived at the diner quickly and stepped inside. It was an old building, situated mere blocks from the entrance to the Ministry—between the Ministry and the Leaky Cauldron, to be truthful—but it was well maintained and clean. The walls were decorated with pictures of various well-known people of the Muggle world, and though Sirius with his limited exposure to the Muggle world did not know who most of them were, he did remember a few. Or, perhaps more precisely, he remembered those which were memorable to him, such as the gorgeous blond whose picture hung on the wall beside the entrance. Her name was… Marilyn… something or other. Perhaps he did not remember as much as he had thought.

As for the rest of the place, a long bar with red cushioned stools sat in the center of the room in a U shape, while tables with blue plaid coverings and benches with similar cushions to the stools, rounded out the décor. It was perhaps a throwback to such eating establishments from an earlier time and another part of the world—or so Lily had told them the first time she had brought the Marauders here during the summer after their sixth year—and the proprietors served the best hamburgers in London. It also had the distinction of being in the Muggle world and thus safe from most Death Eater depredations—Death Eaters were not known, after all, for being able to navigate the Muggle world, nor were they known for frequenting burger joints.

Sirius directed Hestia into the diner and they moved to the counter to place their order, Sirius guiding Hestia toward something he thought she would like—the food of this establishment was quite a bit heavier than what she would normally be used to, besides being fried or deep fried. After a wait of only a few minutes for their food to arrive, they made their way to a table located in the back corner, from where he could watch the door—old habits died hard, it seemed. There, Sirius covertly erected a very mild Muggle repelling charm, as well as a privacy ward. If anyone happened to overhear them, they would think they heard nothing more than a conversation about the weather.

They ate in silence for some time, and while Hestia threw Sirius some speculative and empathetic looks, he missed most of them. He was too busy brooding about the fact that although he had received the very best of treatment in the past nine months, he had changed from the time he had been a young man. Conversing then had been easy—effortless for the most part. He had certainly never had trouble speaking with pretty young women—or more correctly, hitting on pretty young women, he supposed. Now, he was no longer so certain what to say. Oh, he could still fake it and fall back on flirtation and innuendo, but it seemed hollow. No, what he really wanted to do was to speak to Hestia as an equal, and for once in his life, he wasn't certain what to say.

Still, it was not necessarily prison which had changed him so much. He was older, and infinitely wiser. At least he hoped he had acquired at least a little wisdom during those endless days and months spent in hell. Though to be honest, it was likely nothing more than a dog's wisdom he would have acquired, as he had spent the bulk of his time in his canine form, so as to avoid the tender mercies of the Dementors. Or at least what passed for such.

"A knut for your thoughts."

His companion's voice brought Sirius out of his melancholy thoughts, and he looked up into the eyes of the woman who sat across from him. She watched him with an expression which Sirius ascribed to be equal parts concern, compassion and friendship, as well as a few more emotions which Sirius could not even begin to define. She was a friend. Sirius fancied that a friend was exactly what he needed right now.

"Just about this crazy world we live in," Sirius admitted. "The years pass and the seasons change, and yet it seems we're still dealing with the same problems."

Hestia cocked her head to the side as she regarded him curiously.

"Voldemort," Sirius said with a shortness which was unintended. "You have to remember that I spent years tucked away in a very small cell, many of them as a dog. The passage of time had very little meaning. To me, it's like the first war and what we are dealing with now are one and the same."

"How are you holding up?" she asked quietly and with some compassion.

"Well enough," Sirius replied with a shrug. "Though the past two days have been… distasteful, at least old Voldy has a few less toadies to do his bidding. And I would imagine it would set him back as they were his highest ranking followers."

Sirius leaned back in his seat, pushing the containers from his now consumed meal to the side. "And how about you?" he asked, wanting to distance himself a little from the events at the Ministry. "How are you holding up?"

"The whole Ministry is in an uproar," Hestia replied with a wry grin. "With a new Minister at the top, I suppose it was to be expected, even without our action at the Ministry."

"No doubt," Sirius said with a snort. In his mind's eyes he was considering the events to which she referred, thinking about how the fight had come about. Or perhaps more particularly, how they had worked together so well as a team. "You know," he said aloud, not wishing to delve any further into such thoughts, "I don't believe I even know what you do for a living. I assume that you work in the Ministry?"

"Auror department," Hestia confirmed.

"You're an Auror?" Sirius replied with some surprise. Though it should not be quite so surprising, considering the considerable expertise she had displayed only a few nights ago.

"No, I'm not an Auror. I work in the resource department. I used to record Aurors' incident reports, record statements, the deposition of evidence—that sort of thing. Now I'm more involved with strategic planning, rapid response, duty rosters, and so on."

Sirius nodded with approval. "A very important role. I used to be an Auror myself, you know. I'm well aware of the critical role your staff plays in the operation of the department. I will say that you would make a good Auror yourself—you stood toe to toe with those Death Eaters and never even flinched."

Flushing lightly at the praise, Hestia directed a bit of a bashful smile at him. "I've had good tutors. Tonks and I are really close, and she's shared some of what she's learned with me."

"I can imagine how the two of you would be friends," Sirius replied with a smirk.

A companionable silence settled over them, and Sirius sat back, thinking about how different this had been from his life over the last many years. The silence in Azkaban _could not_ be deemed comfortable in any manner. And even before, when he and the Marauders were thick as thieves, they had been more boisterous than quiet. Even Peter, who had been more in awe of the rest of them, had been exuberant more than introspective.

And there had been Lily, the only long-term female presence in his life after he had thrown off all affiliation with his family and, more particularly, with his harridan of a mother. They had all been at least a little in love with the fiery woman, Sirius no less than the others. But he had never begrudged James his good fortune—James had mooned after Lily for some time before he had finally succeeded in convincing her to go out with him, and Sirius had felt only happiness for his friend. But even Lily, though she certainly had her own periods of quiet introspection, had not exactly been a quiet woman.

Hestia was much different from Lily. Whereas Lily had been a swiftly flowing stream, happy and bubbling, but dotted with shoals and rapids full of foaming, frothing tempests, Hestia was a calm and placid river, though given the display she had put on at the Ministry, was just as capable of tempests of her own.

"So what are your plans now?" Hestia asked.

Sirius eyed her with some trepidation. Though the question was innocent enough, Sirius retained enough knowledge of women, and a more particular insight when he watched her body language, which screamed interest, while she feigned the opposite. Apparently she could be just as forward as Lily too.

"Teach at Hogwarts, watch my godson grow up, and help him defeat Voldy."

Apparently, Hestia was not fazed in the slightest by his obvious obfuscation. "All very noble and worthy goals," she agreed. "But surely you have taken thought for your own life."

"I'm just getting used to the fact of being truly free and not on the run. I haven't really had time for things like that. Besides, why would I want to saddle a woman with an old convict like myself?"

"There must be plenty of women who wouldn't consider it a burden."

Sirius shook his head. "Hestia, I think we should end this conversation and move on to something else. I'm sure you can find someone better than me."

"I didn't just ask you to marry me, Sirius," Hestia admonished with a smile to take out any sting her words may have caused.

"No, and for that you should be grateful," Sirius replied with a roll of his eyes. "I wouldn't want you to run away screaming."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly faint of heart." Her manner was playful, but her eyes reflected nothing but her serious intent. "Look, Sirius, I know there are things you have to do. I know that Voldemort is back and threatening all you love. I'm not trying to muscle my way into your life. I _am_, however, trying to let you know I'm interested, and that I don't consider the age difference, the history with Dementors, or your obvious emotional scars something which should hinder us in any way.

"Or, are you perhaps trying to tell me that you're just not interested?"

There was a certain vulnerability to her final question, though Sirius still did not think that she would be overly hurt if he rejected her outright. At the moment, she did not know him any better than he did her—surely she could not have formed a strong attachment to him on the strength of so little interaction. On the other hand, she was certainly forthright. Most Pureblood women would not behave in such a fashion, sticking to time-honored traditions which stated the man had to make the first move.

"You remind me a little of my friend's wife," he replied wistfully. "I don't think I've ever heard, but I'm assuming you're not a Pureblood?"

"Halfblood actually," Hestia replied proudly. "Mum is a Muggleborn, and after her own experiences at school and the way she was sometimes treated, she taught me not to take crap from anyone and to fight for what I want. Dad's a Pureblood, though, so we lived in the magical world."

"That explains why you brought it up," Sirius muttered.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she replied playfully. "Perhaps you'd prefer some pretty little Pureblood who will defer to you and be the good little wife in the kitchen."

Sirius snorted. "You don't really understand Purebloods if that's what you think."

A playful smile dancing across her features, Hestia responded, "I know that there are many strong-willed Purebloods, but I do know that they won't make the first move. But we've gotten a little off track."

She smiled at him a little sadly. "If you're not interested, just tell me—I can take it."

Sirius slumped back in his seat and regarded her. "It's not that I'm not interested. There's just so much going on right now—I'm not sure if I could do a relationship justice."

"Then we'll just have to take it slow," Hestia replied with a beaming smile. "I won't ask for anything that you are not in a position to give."

Sirius's own answering smile was tentative. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he respected this woman and found the prospect of candlelit dinners and long walks in the park to be appealing. In all his playful attachments to the opposite sex when he was younger, there had been no one to whom he had really connected on an emotional level. Perhaps he had not understood it about himself before, but regardless of the manner in which he felt that Azkaban… damaged him, he truly did want it. He wanted a relationship akin to that which his closest friend had found.

Did he want it with Hestia Jones? Now that was a question which he could not truly answer with any clarity at present. What Sirius did know, was that he would enjoy discovering the answer to that question. He would enjoy it very much. And so he answered in the only way he could, in a very non-Sirius manner, he was sure James would have teased him, if he had been alive to witness it.

"I think I would like that, Hestia."

* * *

"Very well, Alaric, you have my attention. Why did you request this meeting?"

Curiously, Albus watched the head of house Morgan, as he paced the room in some agitation. It was decidedly out of character for the usually composed and calm man to be pacing about in such a manner. Of course, all Albus could really base this impression on was the time they had spent together in the various Wizengamot duties and the occasions they had met at one official function or another, being, as they were, on completely opposite ends of the political spectrum. Alaric had the reputation of being a staunch supporter of the Pureblood agenda and a generally humorless, severe sort of man. Something significant must have happened to shake his equilibrium.

His pacing finally stopped and Alaric slumped into his seat, turning his attention to Albus, who was attempting to wait patiently. He was needed back at the school; his duties as Headmaster had been neglected rather grievously since the night of Harry's adventure, and he was certain the paperwork had piled up in his absence. And he had a most unpleasant duty awaiting him—he must break the news of the executions to those youngsters whose fathers had been executed that day. Furthermore, he was concerned over what form Tom's response to the executions of his minions would be, and was half afraid that it would involve an attack on Hogwarts itself, while Albus was engaged elsewhere. His presence was needed at the school, as a deterrence if nothing else.

"I believe I have made an error in judgment, Albus," Alaric said at length.

Albus raised a single eyebrow at this statement.

Alaric huffed slightly and fixed his eyes upon Albus. "You and I have been political foes for the entirety of our time in the Wizengamot, and I believe we both have the measure of one another." A sardonic smile came over his face. "The irony of it is, of course, the fact that you are the elder statesman and yet you espouse a much more progressive ideology while I, the relative newcomer, am very much the staunch conservative."

"Thank you, Alaric," Albus replied with a laugh. "'Elder statesman' is a much kinder title than what I am used to from most of the Pureblood faction."

A wry smile fell over Alaric's face. "I hope that I am not one from whom you expect to hear such epithets."

"No," Albus agreed. "You have always been at least respectful."

"I will not lie to you, Albus," Alaric continued. "I am a Pureblood through and through. I believe that Muggleborn have no place in our society and that the ideas they bring with them are dangerous and may one day result in the revealing of the existence of magic to the Muggles, or, at the very least, that they'll destroy our way of life with their radical ideas. I believe that all Muggleborn should be obliviated of the knowledge of magic and have their magic bound when they are discovered. If that is done, then eventually no more Muggleborn will be born, and the magical world can live peacefully, separate from the Muggle world."

"I guarantee to you that if that is done, then we will be signing the death warrant for the magical world," Albus rejoined, aware that this argument had been rehashed over and over, and perhaps now was not the time to bring this up, especially now that Alaric had, for reasons of his own, chosen to speak frankly. It was something which had never happened before, and Albus was intrigued as to the man's reasons.

"And I would counter by saying that you have no proof of such a thing," Alaric declared, though the rancor, which was such a major part of most discussions of this type, was notably absent. "But I did not ask to see you in order to have this argument again."

Albus peered at Alaric over his half-moon glasses. "Then why did you ask to speak to me?"

Sighing, Alaric pressed his fingers to his temples, as though his head ached. "Because regardless of my beliefs, I have never consorted with the likes of You-Know-Who and his followers. At least, until now."

That piqued Albus's interest. He had never truly thought much on the matter of whether Alaric had supported Voldemort in the past. His name had never come up in the Death Eater trials after Voldemort's first fall, and Albus had always assumed that he was a supporter—and perhaps even a monetary supporter—but was not a Death Eater himself. He would not be the only one, if he was.

"What exactly do you mean?" Albus prompted as these thoughts ran through his head.

"I was approached by Selwyn after Fudge's death, and he convinced me that I should be their candidate for Minister. I was hesitant, knowing of his affiliation with You-Know-Who in the past, but he convinced me. He fed me stories of how You-Know-Who had learned his lesson the first time and how he would change the world this time by persuasion, rather than all-out war the way he tried to do it last time."

"And you believed him?" Albus asked.

"I did." Alaric paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Now I wonder if there might have been a touch of compulsion involved." He waved his hand at Albus's interested look. "Oh, not from Selwyn. The man is brash, possesses no subtlety and is little more than a thug. I was thinking that it might have come from You-Know-Who himself—an enchanted object on Selwyn's person, perhaps, directed toward me.

"I'm not certain, to be honest," he continued with a shrug. "It was more a random thought which struck me. I consider myself to be competent, and as Selwyn is not one I would put on my level, I wondered about how he had managed to convince me. As I recall, I _was_ rather easily persuaded."

"You may be correct," Albus replied slowly. "Voldemort—" he ignored Alaric's flinch at the mention of the name, "is very subtle and skilled. It would certainly be well within his abilities to arrange for such a thing."

Alaric inclined his head. "Regardless, I was persuaded and allowed myself to be nominated."

"Are you a Death Eater?" Albus knew his question was a trifle blunt, but it appeared that Morgan was about to throw Voldemort off at the very least, and Albus would need to know exactly what he was dealing with.

In response, Alaric rolled up his left sleeve, exposing the unblemished skin of his arm. "I am not, nor would I have been persuaded to accept it, especially had I been told what was required." Alaric grimaced. "I suppose the required 'sacrifice' could have been money donated for the cause in my case, which would not have been _overtly_ offensive. Learning what some of the others—especially Malfoy—have done to gain their marks would have put me off them entirely."

He sighed heavily and once again massaged his temples with his hand. "And that is what prompted me to speak to you today. I suspect that Voldemort was trying to set me up as a puppet Minister, using someone who agreed—broadly—with his goals, who would be acceptable to others and have a chance at being elected. I suspect that that is at least part of the reason why you nominated Madam Bones."

Albus inclined his head.

"I'm certain, however, that I would have been a true Minister only for the time it would have taken for You-Know-Who himself to pay me a visit. Had I refused to take the dark mark, I would quickly have been Imperiused to do his bidding, and likely would have met an 'unfortunate accident' as soon as he felt he could get someone who would do what he was told elected.

"Regardless, my eyes were opened by the testimonies we've heard. I had always suspected that Malfoy and the others had committed crimes—they were known Death Eaters, regardless of how they claimed Imperius, and You-Know-Who's forces were not exactly gentle during the first war.

"But I never expected them to have descended to such depravities."

The haunted quality of Alaric's words came through in his voice, and Albus, even without the confirmation of passive Legilimency, could tell that Alaric was telling nothing but the complete truth.

"Nothing could have prepared me for what was said these past two days." His eyes darted from the floor to meet Albus's, and there was an almost wild quality to his expression. "I support a segregation of the magic and Muggle worlds, including Muggleborn in the Muggle world, and I believe that it is our best course for our future growth as a society. But Voldemort espouses a much different vision, and one I could never support. Regardless of how I believe the Muggles are intrinsically inferior to wizards and Muggleborn are not much better, they _are still human!_ No one deserves to have the… the… vile acts perpetrated upon them that Lucius Malfoy and his ilk have committed. Their executions were well carried out—filth such as they do not deserve to live!"

"And this is why you supported their execution?" Albus queried. It was beginning to make sense, and though the man had not made a fundamental change in what he believed—and Albus doubted he ever would—at least he had now seen Voldemort for what he truly was. Hopefully, there were more in the Wizengamot who possessed the integrity of this man, regardless of the ideals they espoused.

"Yes, it is," Alaric confirmed. "I was sickened by the lot of them, particularly Lucius Malfoy. The world is a better place without the lot of them."

Taking a deep breath, Alaric seemed to gather himself, and he peered at Albus with an unreadable expression on his face.

"As for the reason I asked for this meeting, the first reason is that I wanted to inform you of my feelings on the matter. The second…" he paused briefly before again steeling himself. "Again, we are on the opposite political spectrum and in some respects I can hardly fathom what I am about to do. But Voldemort is the larger threat and he _must_ be dealt with. You have my support until he and his followers are put down like the rabid dogs they are."

"A formal alliance?" Albus asked, though he thought that Alaric would not go that far.

Alaric shook his head, proving Albus's supposition. "I don't believe that is necessary, and it would raise some eyebrows at the very least. No, I simply mean that I will support you and the Minister in the prosecution of this war, and will not attempt to hinder you. I have not changed my political views and I believe that fact alone would make a closer alliance between us problematic at best. There are others who feel much as I do."

It was certainly better than Albus had hoped for before the Death Eater trials had begun, but also perhaps less than he might have expected from one who had made such a radical change in stance. Still, having one less foe in the Wizengamot chambers would only make passing Amelia's agenda that much easier.

"You do realize that this will make you a target, correct?"

Alaric sat back in his chair and nodded. "I am certain it will. But our family wards, though not as robust as those at Hogwarts, are still old and strong, and I have already arranged to have them improved, and my family will now all carry emergency portkeys." He stopped and smiled. "My oldest granddaughter is due to begin attending Hogwarts next year and I mean to see that she does."

Albus smiled—speaking of the children and of Hogwarts always filled him with the greatest pleasure. "Ah yes. That would be Briony—your eldest son's daughter, correct?"

"It is," the other man confirmed. "She's a happy child and sharp as a tack. I expect she'll go into Ravenclaw when she is sorted."

The weighty subjects covered, the two men spent some moments speaking of the upcoming school year, as well as Alaric's grandchildren, before parting. It was with a sigh that Albus's thoughts were once again turned to his coming duty with Alaric's departure. He would not have thought it, but the time they had spent in discussion were pleasant, proving once again that anyone, regardless of political or social leanings, were still people, and that he would do well not to judge them until he knew them well.

But Hogwarts awaited, and with that thought in mind, Albus made his way to the Floos. Four young Slytherins would become heads of their families in about a year when they came of age, but though Albus would have hoped that they would take their fathers' fates as a warning not to follow in their footsteps, he very much feared that it would have exactly the opposite effect. He feared it very much indeed.

* * *

Albus was correct in his estimation of the situation, not that Draco could have known such a thing.

Draco sat in the Slytherin common room, seething. He had received the news only a short time earlier, when he, Crabbe, Nott, and Goyle had been summoned to the Headmaster's office. He had been surprised to see his mother there, along with the mothers of his friends, and had expected to hear the news of his father's release. Nothing could have prepared him for the truth of the matter.

* * *

"Draco…" his mother began hesitantly. She stopped and broke down slightly, and Draco wondered what was happening. He had never seen his mother in such a state before—she had always been calm and in control of her emotions, not this pale, shaken woman standing in front of him.

They were sitting in an unused classroom not far from the Headmaster's office, its disuse evidenced by the haphazard placement of the desk and the layer of dust which coated the floor, and eddied in the currents which flowed through the room as they had opened the door. Narcissa Malfoy had cleared the filth from two of the chairs so they could sit, but her actions had been distracted. She appeared to be almost anxious.

"What is it mother?" Draco demanded. "Has father been released yet?"

Her reaction drove his concern almost to the point of panic—she closed her eyes and swallowed, and a tear escaped the corner of her eye. Something was clearly wrong here.

At length she gathered herself and opened her eyes to gaze upon him, an almost fearful expression on her face. "Draco, your father was not released. There is no easy way to tell you this, but he was executed for his crimes."

"What?" Draco whispered. "That cannot possibly be true." In the confines of his head he screamed the denial, echoed it over and over again. His father was Lucius Malfoy! He was a leading member of society and a Pureblood of the highest standing! Dumbledore and his followers could not possibly have dared to put _his father_ to death!

"Draco," his mother began again, and this time she appeared to have mastered herself to a certain extent, "your father is dead. They used Veritaserum, and he was forced to recount every crime they could discover. Some of the horrible things he did… I never knew…"

"I don't care what he's done!" Draco cried. "I'm sure he did what was necessary to serve the Dark Lord and promote our values."

A stern expression came over Narcissa's face. "Draco, if you knew some of the heinous things he did—"

"It doesn't matter what he did!" Draco yelled. "I'm sure I would have done the same in his place! I'm sure _I will_ do the same thing, should the Dark Lord command it!"

Narcissa closed her eyes and she breathed deeply for a moment. Draco was nonplused at her behavior—surely she was as angry as he was. How could this have happened? Had his father's allies on the Wizengamot betrayed him by not speaking out in his favor? Had they all betrayed the Dark Lord and his father in the process?

"Listen to me, Draco," Narcissa pleaded. She reached out and grasped his shoulders, bringing him from his murderous thoughts and forcing him to look her in the eye. "The Headmaster offered to allow you and your friends to come home for a few days. However, the Dark Lord has commanded that you are to stay here."

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, appearing much older than her years would suggest. "Your father was pushed through the veil, so there is no body and therefore, no burial required."

"Surely you do not mean to simply let that lie, Mother," Draco protested. "Father's life should be celebrated. He was a great man."

His mother hesitated—it was not much, but it suggested to Draco that she did not agree with his words. He could not understand her. His mother had always been devoted to his father and he was sure that regardless of the fact that they had been married by contract, he had always thought that they shared a mutual affection, if not love. At least they had always been united in their common vision of the future, as well as their devotion to Draco himself.

"I cannot believe what I am hearing, Mother," Draco accused. "You are betraying father's memory by your behavior."

"Draco, your father has done many things in his service to the Dark Lord." Narcissa paused for a moment before continuing with determination. "I never knew even a fraction of it. Yes, I knew that his hands were not lily white, but I had never guessed the depths to which he had descended."

Draco huffed with annoyance, but his mother was firm. "I understand your skepticism, Draco, but now is not the time for such matters. We will erect a headstone in the family cemetery this summer after you return from Hogwarts. In the meantime, you will stay at Hogwarts as the Dark Lord has commanded—I cannot do anything about that. But I implore you—find out what your father's life truly was and carefully consider your own future."

"You would have me throw off the Dark Lord?" Draco demanded incredulously. "Should I betray everything my father stood for?"

"You don't know half of what your father stood for," Narcissa snapped. She then took a deep breath to calm herself. "Draco, I know very well what your loyalties and opinions are, and I know that I will never be persuaded away from them." Narcissa's eyes misted over and she appeared to fight for composure. "All I ask is that you act very carefully. Your father is gone. You are all that I have left of him. I do not want to lose you. Please do not do anything to put yourself in danger."

* * *

Even after the fact, Draco could hardly believe the way his mother had acted. She seemed almost condemning of his father's actions, and Draco felt that he hardly knew her.

He had intended to avoid the newspapers, wishing to consciously eschew any information of how the press and the Wizengamot had portrayed his father's life, but he found out that his curiosity could not be suppressed. To say that he was surprised at some of the things to which the newspaper alluded would be correct, but after he thought about it, he knew that his father had been right. Muggles and Mudbloods and the like—not excepting those who supported them—were a plague on society. They need to be exorcised in any way possible. In fact, he shared much the same problem as his father had, with respect to the existence of a certain infuriating Mudblood…

No, regardless of what the newspaper said, or what his mother would not come out and say, he, Draco Malfoy, would remember Lucius Malfoy as the great man and loving father he had been. He would give no credence whatsoever to the words his enemies had used. He would be true to his father and to the Dark Lord, and he would ensure, to the best of his abilities, that his father's vision of the future of the magical world was realized.

And that included his own personal vengeance. For he knew who was to blame for these events: Potter. It was time the Halfblood began to pay for his sins. About the only good thing to come of the day was the fact that the Headmaster had excused them from their detentions that evening in deference to their losses. It was perfect, as it allowed Draco the time to perfect his plan.

So that evening when his friends approached him, Draco put them off. Crabbe and Goyle had almost identical expressions of incomprehension mixed with anger, while Nott's eyes were visibly reddened. Draco did not begrudge him the release of his emotions, but he had refused to give in to them himself. Rage was a much more useful tool than sadness or despair.

"You lot will do nothing," Draco snapped when Nott asked him what they were going to do about it, for about the third time, though Draco had not been paying enough attention to count. "Dumbledore still controls Hogwarts, so the less you know of the matter, the better."

"We're not just going to let this slide, Draco," Theo said coldly.

"No, we're not. But _I_ am the one who will respond. The rest of you need to keep your noses clean and make sure you don't jeopardize the plan."

His friends appeared to be less than happy with his insistence, but Draco did not care at this point. They would just have to put up with it. As for Draco, it was time he reminded Potter just who he was dealing with. Potter's education would be very painful. Draco knew just how to begin it.

Had anyone been looking into his eyes at that moment, they would have seen a startling resemblance to his father in their depths. Yes, Draco Malfoy was more like his father than anyone could have predicted.

* * *

"I can't believe they really executed them," Harry exclaimed as he read the headline emblazoned on the front of the special edition of the Daily Prophet.

Hermione threw her copy of the paper down with some disgust. "Given some of the things they did, they certainly deserve it."

"I know," Harry replied while gesturing at the paper. "But you know how corrupt the Wizengamot is. I thought they would just be sent to Azkaban. It wouldn't be the first time Lucky Lucy avoided paying for his crimes."

"I think that once they knew just exactly what the Death Eaters had done, no one in the chamber could risk voting for them," Fleur said quietly. "Any right thinking person would be sickened at the atrocities these men committed."

"I guess I know why Voldemort was so mad."

It had come just after dinner time—the intense feeling of rage and disbelief, which made its way through Harry's Occlumency. He had become proficient enough at it that generally he was able to shut Voldemort out, but he was still affected at times by intense emotions. There had been more and more of that as of late, to be honest, almost as though Voldemort was losing his carefully kept control of his emotions. It was a good thing he had not discovered this connection, though Harry was certain that it had been a close thing a time or two. He shuddered to think of what the man would do if he ever discovered it.

"Malfoy's going to be even more dangerous than usual," Ron commented quietly from the opposite side of the table.

Harry's eyes turned almost involuntarily to the Slytherin table, but Malfoy and his friends were not there. In fact, they had not come down to dinner at all, and had been very little in evidence since the fracas in the Slytherin common room.

"We'll have to watch him carefully," Harry replied, looking at his friends carefully. "Now that he doesn't have daddy to run to he might take matters into his own hands."

A murmur of agreement swept through those nearby and the matter was dropped for the time being, in favor of continuing to peruse the information contained in the prophet. It did not go into any specific detail, Harry noted, but it was easy enough to read between the lines. Lucius Malfoy and his cronies had been sadistic, murdering bastards, and the world was a much better place without them.

But Harry would not lie to himself. Voldemort had plenty more sadistic, murdering bastards at his beck and call. There would be a response to this. It would happen soon.

* * *

Lord Voldemort prided himself in his intelligence, and his calm, rational manner, and his ability to think his way through potential problems. He was feared, it was true, and he did not suffer fools willingly, nor was he patient with egregious failure. His followers were aware of this, and it helped motivate them to complete the tasks with which they were entrusted quickly and efficiently.

However, he was also careful in distributing punishment to those who failed him, only truly punishing those who deserved it due to negligence or lack of effort. It did not do to overly terrorize those who had given him their allegiance. It was bad for morale and encouraged desertions, diverting valuable resources to hunt down those who deserted. He could not tolerate disloyalty, after all.

That was why the sight of a Dark Lord completely in a rage, distributing torture curses to all who came within his line of vision was so surprising to his underlings. Though in all honesty, it might have been predicted, given the events of the day.

Once his followers had learned not to bother him, Voldemort sat on his throne in solitary silence as he brooded, infuriated over the fate of his followers. He was amazed, frankly, that Dumbledore had played the situation in this manner. He would not have thought the old man had it in him to condemn so many men to death, despite their actions. Had Cornelius Fudge still occupied the Minister's office, he doubted that such a sentence would have been imposed. The fact that it had been his own impulsive action which had resulted in Fudge's tenure ending did not make the bitter pill any easier to swallow.

Voldemort's plan had been a simple one. Wait for the Wizengamot to convict the men, sentence them to Azkaban, and then swoop in and release them once again. He had done it before—he was supremely confident he could do it again.

Now he was left without most of his inner circle, as most of his senior Death Eaters had been involved in the Ministry operation. It was a serious blow to his efforts—men such as they would be difficult to replace, as their replacements would not have the history he shared with the men they were replacing. Their replacements would have to be trained to anticipate his desires. It was a headache, especially when he should be preparing to take over magical Britain.

But he would not allow this setback to stop him. He had faced greater challenges in the past and been able to overcome them—this was no different. The Ministry was still in flux after the election for the new Minister. Perhaps the time had now come to put into motion the plan he had conceived during his exile. Yes, the world must feel the effects of his displeasure, and know that to cross him was to invite his wrath.

He looked up and noted Bellatrix standing by the entrance watching him silently. With the deaths of the others, Bellatrix was now his closest and most trusted advisor. Severus was one other, but his position at Hogwarts demanded distance, and with the fiasco at the Ministry his information was now suspect. Oh, Voldemort did not doubt his loyalty—those who came to him did _not_ escape—but it appeared that Dumbledore had perhaps caught on to the fact that his loyal spy was perhaps not quite so loyal as he had thought. Every piece of information Severus brought him from this time forward must now be handled with the greatest of care.

There was no such need with Bellatrix. She had always been his most loyal and fanatical follower. Even now, when the others had run from his righteous rage, she stood there calmly, waiting patiently for his control to reassert itself. He knew that she would accept a torture curse from him gladly if he deemed it necessary, even though she was still recovering from the injuries she had sustained at the Ministry. None other could compare with her.

"Bellatrix," he called softly.

"My Lord," she replied, as she approached him, almost seeming to float in the air.

"It is time to show the world the consequences of defiance. I believe the take over of magical Britain will now proceed."

Bella bowed her head her eyes alight with fanatical glee. "The Ministry will fall, My Lord. I promise you."

"Very well."

Once more Bellatrix bowed and then turned to leave, her steps swift and sure—purposeful. If all of those in his ranks had been as competent and eager as Bellatrix, he would have prevailed long ago.

But they were not, and it would not do to forget that the lot of them were nothing more than tools to do with as he pleased. Now, that was true more than ever, as those who had been with him the longest had been put to death.

Forcibly, Voldemort turned his thoughts away, pondering what the Blood Traitor Sirius Black had said as Lucius Malfoy had been led to the veil. The allusion to the prophecy filled Voldemort with rage once again at being thwarted. It truly was unfortunate that the prophecy had been lost, for Voldemort was certain that it contained information vital to his cause. It was possible, perhaps, that one of Dumbledore's associates could be… persuaded to reveal what they knew of it. But that would mean he would need one of them to fall into his hands. Black was protected while he was at Hogwarts, and an abduction by one of his forces, while possible, was fraught with many risks for uncertain benefit, given Dumbledore's propensity for keeping his knowledge secret. Other than Black, Voldemort was not certain that anyone else would have been trusted with the information. No, despite how important the prophecy was, Voldemort would only attempt to have an abduction undertaken if the situation became untenable and the knowledge became obviously essential.

The fact was that those who supported Potter must be made to pay. They must all be made to pay, and the sooner, the better.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Once again, I would like to thank everyone who continues to read and comment on this work. I was happy with the responses for the most part in the last chapter. Though I explained my reasons for the way the story developed, I had wondered if the responses would not be a little more negative. Thanks to everyone for your continued support and encouragement!

2. The astute reader will again notice a name I inserted from Katherine Kurtz's works. Briony was indeed the daughter of Alaric Morgan in that universe, though she was an extremely minor character. I'm not certain if she even appeared "on screen" throughout the entirety of the series.

3. Yes, this is a build up chapter after the emotion and disgust of the last one. The next chapter contains the beginning of the "fit hitting the shan" in the story. I don't really want to give away anything more than that.

4. I've barely managed to stay awake this long to post. If I've missed anything, please include it in a review or PM and I will fix it. There's a very good chance I'll go over the chapter once more tomorrow to fix anything wonky, and any awkward phrasing. For right now, I think I'd better get to bed...


	49. Chapter 48 – On the Brink

**Previously: **Sirius meets Hestia on the way out of the Ministry after the trials and they go to a nearby diner. They speak and decide that each is interested in the other, but they will take any relationship slow. Alaric Morgan meets with Dumbledore, and though he is clear that he is still a supremacist, he is disgusted with the Death Eaters' confessions. He pledges his support until Voldemort is defeated. Draco thinks about how he learned of his father's death from his mother. He plots revenge while telling his friends that they cannot be involved. Harry thinks that Draco will need to be watched. Voldemort, incensed by the executions of his followers, plans an offensive against the Wizarding world.

* * *

**Chapter 48 – On the Brink**

The day after the conclusion of the Death Eater trials dawned bright and cheery, with the warmth of the sun brightening the landscape and not a breath of wind to chill the Scottish landscape. It was still early April, after all, and though the morning was rather fine, it would not take much movement of air to render the morning cooler than it actually was. It was just the kind of Saturday morning which hinted at the delights of spring and approaching summer, while the fact that it was a weekend allowed all and sundry to enjoy it without the normal concerns of classes and schedules. Even the approaching exams seemed far away and, somehow, less important.

As it was a weekend morning, the group of Gryffindor friends left the tower later than was they normally would, making their way toward the Great Hall for breakfast before beginning their day. As they walked, there was one for whom OWLs were not "less than important" and as they made their way down the stairs, she considered the matter. Though her closest friends tended to be somewhat lackadaisical about such things—though she had to admit that both Harry and Ron had been much improved this year—the fact was that OWLs were now only two months away. Hermione had already built some revising schedules for the fifth years of the company, as she was never one to leave such things to chance. Their OWLs grades were, after all, very important and would determine which classes they would be able to take at NEWT level.

"Thinking about OWLs again?"

Hermione started at the voice close by her side and turned to see Harry regarding her with a knowing grin.

"When's she not thinking about OWLs?" Ron stated from where he walked ahead of them.

A round of snickers met his response, but rather than be put off by them—as she would have been as a child, when the jibe would have been meant to injure—Hermione simply smiled cheekily at one of her two oldest friends.

"Be glad you have someone to think of these things, Ronald," was her prim reply.

"Yeah, well you think about them enough for all of us."

"Oh come now—I'm not that bad." A variety of skeptical expressions met her gaze and Hermione grinned. "I suppose I _can be_ that bad. But I _haven't been_. I just want to be prepared, you know."

"Being prepared is good," one of the twins noted sagely.

"And we've never known you to _not_ be prepared," agreed the other. "But OWLs aren't really _that_ important in the grand scheme of things."

Hermione sputtered to respond to that statement, ignoring the amusement from the rest of the group. "How can you say that?" she demanded. "Our OWL grades not only shape what we can take at NEWT level, but they also determine our employment opportunities in the future."

"Only partially true," Fleur broke in, while the twins nodded. "Yes, your grades determine whether you can move to NEWT level, but beyond that, whether you score an 'Exceeds Expectations' or an 'Outstanding on your potions OWL is largely of no significance."

"The fact of the matter," one of the twins continued, "is that employers will often require minimum standards in NEWT scores, but they rarely, if ever, look at your OWLs."

"So you could conceivably scrape by with 'Acceptable' in all your courses in you OWL year, but if you got 'Outstanding' on all of your NEWTs you could be employed just about anywhere."

Now that was something Hermione did not know about the magical world, but she supposed it did make sense. After all, when did an employer in the Muggle world look at high school scores? It was always about what a person did in university.

"Well, I still like to be prepared," Hermione muttered. "I hardly think that a person who only got the bare minimum to pass would change their study habits enough to get top marks in only two years."

"And that's what we love about our Hermione," Harry stated, while wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and possibly preempting further teasing from the rest of the group. "She's always there to keep us grounded and focused."

A range of grins met Harry's statement and Hermione's slightly flushed face. Though no one as of yet had called them out for it, it was certainly no secret that she and Harry were now "an item." Her friends seemed to be happy for her, though it was true that she had been the recipient of a certain level of veiled displeasure from those who harbored hopes of their own for Harry. Hope still springs eternal, however, and Hermione was well aware of the fact that some of the girls in Hogwarts were thinking that if Harry could have two wives, he could certainly have three. Not that Harry would ever consider any of them. And they would all know that of him if they thought about it for a moment.

"Some one has to," she mumbled, putting thoughts of Harry and any other wives from her mind.

Harry grinned, but allowed the conversation topic to drop, choosing instead to join an ongoing conversation between Ron and the twins—with a few comments thrown in by the Gryffindor chasers—about the prospects of a Hufflepuff win in the Slytherin/Hufflepuff Quidditch match which was rapidly approaching. Hermione, not truly caring about Quidditch and knowing that the boys could talk about it forever if allowed, allowed herself to slip back into her thoughts.

The other large time consumer she had been focused on lately, other than the approaching OWLs, was the research she had undertaken for Dumbledore. Thus far she had been diligent—she owed Harry no less, after all—but the information was maddeningly sparse, and she had managed to make little progress. The books the Headmaster had given her had turned out largely to be dark in nature, but she had not found any traps or anything else within their pages. It appeared the Headmaster had been very thorough in vetting the books before allowing her to take them. Unfortunately, she had also found little in the way of useful information. At the most there were tantalizing hints, but no true knowledge to be found about Horcruxes, and when she had subsequently returned those and obtained more from the Headmaster, they had contained nothing better.

It was a fight to avoid becoming discouraged, and Hermione almost felt that she was letting Harry down, for all that she knew intellectually that such was not the case. The information not existing was not her fault, after all. Yet so much depended on this—if a way could not be found to remove the Horcrux… The thought was painful and one on which she did not wish to dwell.

Such thoughts occupied Hermione's attention until a few moments later when they arrived at the Great Hall. The bulk of their friends entered and proceeded toward some empty seats along the Gryffindor table and, as Hermione was about to follow them, a younger Hufflepuff girl—likely a second or third year, Hermione thought, approached her.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione smiled at the girl and greeted her.

"The Deputy Headmistress would like to see you in her office."

"Did she say why?" Hermione asked, her expression changing to a frown.

"No, but she said she needed you right away."

"All right. Thank you."

The girl smiled and scampered off into the Great Hall to join her friends.

"Well, let's go then," Harry said from her side.

"It's okay, Harry," Hermione replied affectionately. "I'll go see what she wants and be back in a few minutes."

Harry shook his head. "I don't feel comfortable with you walking around by yourself the way Malfoy's been acting."

"I can take care of myself," Hermione insisted. "Besides, Malfoy's here."

Following her pointed finger, Harry looked toward the Slytherin table. There, seemingly lost in his own his own thoughts, appearing petulant and angry—though that was normally the way he looked, especially given recent events—sat Malfoy. Even his friends were giving him a wide berth, leading Hermione to speculate that he had chased them away so that he could brood in silence. He was probably thinking of the injustice of his criminally insane father being sentenced for all the atrocities he had committed. Or perhaps he was simply planning his own atrocities. Hermione shuddered at the very thought. The ferret was not even remotely Slytherin-like and was actually a bit of a coward, but his face lately had betrayed his dark thoughts. He was well on the path to turning out just like his father, and all it would take was a little push for him to be every bit as dangerous—or perhaps not quite. Lucius had been cunning and devious, and had possessed the necessary skills to pull off his nefarious deeds—Draco was rather ineffectual, and was only skilled in his own opinion.

Harry regarded her dubiously. "I still don't like it. What if he leaves?"

"Then I'll teach him something new if he comes after me," Hermione said with a laugh.

When Harry still did not desist, Hermione grasped his hand affectionately. "Honestly, Harry, remember what Daphne said about being able to protect herself? I can handle myself too." She reached up and ran her fingers along his cheek. "If it makes you feel any better, follow him if he leaves. Then you'll know he won't have a chance to try anything."

Reluctantly, Harry nodded his head. "All right. But if you're not back in fifteen minutes, I'm be looking for you. Remember," he continued, holding up the Marauders' Map, "I've got the map and I can find you anywhere."

Hermione shot him a sultry smile. "Hmm… Maybe I'll have to take you up on your offer."

The intense gaze he leveled upon her caused butterflies to start fluttering in her stomach. "I'd have no complaint with that," he replied huskily.

"Oh go and have some breakfast," Hermione stated a little breathlessly. "I need to have some myself before we get into any of _that_."

"I could bring you something," Harry replied, reaching out to grasp her hand.

"Just a bit of toast and some fruit, please," she replied. "Give me about fifteen minutes."

Smiling, Harry leaned over and kissed her, the merest brushing of his lips against hers. The butterflies in her innards became more agitated, until it seemed like she now had a whole flock of birds writhing within her. Not very steadily, she smiled at him and pulled away, though it was the last thing she wanted to do. The sooner she could get whatever McGonagall wanted out of the way, the sooner Harry would find her. She shivered a little in delighted anticipation, before she resolutely turned and began walking toward the exit from the entrance hall which led to the transfiguration corridor and, beyond it, the defense against the dark arts tower, but not before she turned and blew Harry a kiss. He stood in front of the Great Hall doors watching her until she disappeared from his sight.

The castle was not a small one—to get all the way to the DADA tower Hermione knew that it would take her more than five minutes, but as she was eager to make her promised rendezvous with Harry, she hurried along, wondering what McGonagall wanted with her. It was not uncommon for the Gryffindor head of house to request one of her students to meet with her in her office, but Hermione did not know why McGonagall would want to speak with her at that particular moment. She was also not certain why she had used a Hufflepuff girl as a messenger, but chalked that up to the fact that the Hufflepuff quarters were nearby and, if she had something which had come up suddenly, she would merely ask a student who was close by to deliver the message. Hermione did not know what could be so urgent—she hoped that McGonagall did not have some bad news to impart. It could not be anything about her parents, as any letter from them would come with Hedwig, who had been delivering letters at least once per week since the previous year.

She had just about reached the Transfiguration mistress's office, when she sensed movement behind her, though she had not seen anyone as she walked. She tensed to take action, but before she was able to move, she felt the impact of a spell and slumped down unconscious.

* * *

In the Great Hall, Harry sat with his friends, rather impatiently if the truth were to be told. His tête-à-tête with Hermione as they had arrived was foremost on his mind and he could not wait for the appointed time to go and find his love—the delights promised by their upcoming encounter filled him with anticipation and no small amount of desire.

By his side Fleur smirked as she ate her breakfast, clearly suspecting that something had happened, though she made no comment. After their own enjoyable liaison from a few days earlier, Harry thought she was likely feeling content herself in their relationship, and certain other instances in the intervening time had left them both satisfied with the progress they were making. Such encounters had become more and more frequent the more comfortable the three became with their unusual situation, and though it was not uncommon for him to spend time with both girls together—both companionably, and more romantically—they had recently each begun to desire one on one time with him with much greater regularity. Harry was, of course, quite happy to oblige.

In truth, Harry was more than a little surprised. Thus far there had been no jealousy between the girls, and though Harry certainly did not have much experience in the realm of relationships, for one brought up in the Muggle world, he would have thought that each girl would be pushing for their own time with him, while showing some upset when he was with the other. Neither, however, showed any inclination whatsoever toward any sort of jealousy. They merely smirked and teased whenever he returned from a session with one of them, mostly at his dreamy expression and unfocused eyes. And the times he had been with both of them, they had each waited patiently for their turn. They had not as of yet wandered beyond some simple kissing and his hands had not strayed to any inappropriate areas—nor had theirs!—but what they had done thus far had been immensely satisfying.

He wondered if it had something to do with magic. Was their magic recognizing the situation and easing such feelings between them? Or were Fleur's Veela characteristics somehow helping them to be more accepting of each other and thus suppressing feelings of resentment? He had not brought up the subject with them because it truly did not matter, but he rather suspected that it was nothing more than the fact that the two girls were determined to make their relationship work which had allowed them to be so easy in their combined relationships

"Looks like there's trouble in paradise."

It was a comment from Ron which pulled Harry from his thoughts. The redhead jerked his head toward the Slytherin table where Malfoy still sat apart from his normal confederates. Parkinson had risen and was saying something to Malfoy, but he just sneered and waved her off. Parkinson, for her part, shot a glare at him, and then turned and flounced away, leaving the Great Hall in a snit. A moment later the two gorillas also got up from their seats, but at a curt word from Malfoy, they also left without their leader, which was in itself an oddity, as the blond Slytherin was rarely to be found without his bookends. Of his normal crew, only Nott remained—appearing to be brooding much as Malfoy himself was—and Bulstrode, who had been ignoring the rest of them, from what Harry could see, the entire time they had been there.

"Looks like he's unhappy," Harry replied with a smirk. "If I was a little more Malfoy-esque I'd go over and suggest that Parkinson wasn't putting out. Of course considering the fact that she falls over him all the time, it might be that it's _Malfoy_ who's not putting out."

Ron grinned, obviously remembering Malfoy's remark from early in the school year when he had been—remarkably—called out and reprimanded for it by Snape. "It's a mark in Malfoy's disfavor that he's mad when the pug won't put out."

"Because he can't get her to put out or because he can't get anyone who looks less like a dog to fawn all over him?"

Making a great show of thinking it over, accompanied by the snickers of those around them, Ron put his hand out and waggled it from side to side. "Perhaps a bit of column A, a bit of column B."

Harry let out a guffaw, and the rest of their friends joined in the laughter. Harry glanced over at the Slytherin table to see if Malfoy noticed their merriment, but for once the ferret appeared to be oblivious to their presence. He must be seriously thinking for perhaps the first time in his life. Harry had no reason to wish the boy anything good—too much had passed between them, and Malfoy had made his opinion of Harry and his friends far too clear for that—but he almost hoped that the execution of his father had opened the ponce's eyes. Not that he expected such an epiphany; Malfoy was nothing if not predictable, and if the looks he had given Hermione over the past few days were any indication, the rehabilitation of his character was all but impossible. Still, it would be nice to not have to look over his shoulder every few minutes to see if the ferret would try to bite him.

"Now Harry," Fleur said with mock disapproval, "the 'leetle boy' has just lost his father, you know. We should try to be charitable."

Laughing at Fleur's reference to the opening night of the tournament the previous year, Harry shook his head. "Good riddance to bad rubbish, I'd say."

"And I'd have to agree," Fleur said. "But perhaps we shouldn't mock him to his face. You might push him into something."

"Something I'll finish if he starts it," Harry replied.

Fleur just smiled, nodded and returned to her meal, while Harry looked down at his watch. More than ten minutes had passed since Hermione had left for McGonagall's office, so it was just about time for him to go and find her.

"Hot date planned?" Fleur whispered in his ear.

"I thought I'd find Hermione with a little breakfast," Harry replied while looking at Fleur to see what her reaction would be.

"Have fun," Fleur replied with a mischievous wink. She then turned and began conversing with Angelina, leaving Harry to prepare for his departure.

Knowing in general what Hermione's preferences were, Harry gathered up two pieces of toast, an apple, a banana, and several types of berries, and bundled them all up. He was just about to leave when Luna arrived at the Gryffindor table and plopped herself down beside Neville, reaching up to bestow a quick kiss on his cheek. To Neville's credit, the only change to his countenance was a slightly goofy smile. The other boy had come along quite a ways in the past year, much as Harry had himself, he thought with some amusement. Neville could accept kisses from his cute girlfriend in the Great Hall, and Harry felt himself able to endure the light teasing of his friends over the attentions of his own beautiful girlfriends. All seemed right in the world.

"Good morning, everyone," Luna said, while spooning herself some porridge from a nearby container.

At everyone's murmured greetings, Harry thought about Luna, who had also changed considerably in the previous year, though Harry could not claim that he had known her at all before. But compared to the beginning of the summer, this Luna was almost normal. She was still a little spacey and still talked of the creatures she insisted were real, but her behavior was a lot less "out there," leading Harry to believe that the way she had acted previously had perhaps been a way for her to separate herself from others with whom she had no desire to associate. It seemed that months of dating and having friends had given her a new level of confidence that she had not had before. It also helped that now that she was known as Harry's friend, the teasing she had endured in the Ravenclaw dorm had ended. Harry—or Neville, for that matter—had never even had to say a word; the fact that he was well known for sticking up for his friends had been enough to induce those responsible to simply stop doing what they had been doing. If they had found out before the hazing had ceased—Luna had been incredibly reticent and had only admitted it once Padma had made a chance remark—Ravenclaw might have had a seriously irate Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom on their hands.

"Where was Hermione going?" Luna asked. "I saw her walking down the Transfiguration corridor, but she was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn't even hear me calling her."

"She had to go to McGonagall's office," Harry replied. "I was just about to go and meet her."

Luna turned and regarded Harry seriously. "Why did she need to go there?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. A Hufflepuff told her that McGonagall wanted to see her."

"Are you sure she wasn't affected by wrackspurts? McGonagall's not in her office."

Surprised, Harry stared at Luna. "What do you mean?"

"I just saw Professor McGonagall in Professor Flitwick's office. Harry, McGonagall isn't anywhere near the Defense Tower."

Harry's mind was awhirl. The Hufflepuff had specified that Hermione was to go to McGonagall's office, but why would she do that if McGonagall was not there? Had the Deputy Headmistress been called away to Flitwick's office in the meantime? Or had she sent the Hufflepuff off to find Hermione from Flitwick's office?

Frowning, Harry turned toward the Hufflepuff table, but not before first noting that Malfoy was still seated in his customary position at the Slytherin table, though, of course, the gorillas and Parkinson were now absent. They were not the true threat, though—Malfoy was. The ponce was looking at Harry and his friends, but he did not make any response other than scowling and turning his head in another direction. Harry looked up and down the Hufflepuff table, but he was not certain who it was that had given the message—he did not know her and he had not really paid any attention in the brief time Hermione had been speaking to the girl.

"I think…" Harry paused, his concern over the mystery now being replaced by worry for his friend. "I think we need to check the map."

By this time the conversation had garnered the attention of the entire group, and as Harry took the map out from his books and spread it out on the table, his friends crowded around him to see what was happening.

Touching his wand to the map, Harry whispered the words, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good," under his breath. It would not do to let everyone within hearing distance in on the secret of the map.

As the eldritch lines spread across the front of the parchment, Harry ignored the Marauders' greeting and opened the map, beginning to scan the precious artifact. First, he confirmed that McGonagall was in Flitwick's office and that Hermione was nowhere near the area. He then began scanning the map for any hint of Hermione's name, beginning at the Defense Tower, and then expanding out from there to other areas along her path—the Transfiguration Corridor; the path from the Great Hall; any conceivable detour Hermione could have taken on the way to the Deputy Headmistress's office. All contained no sign whatsoever of the missing Gryffindor.

"Harry," Ron said in a hesitant voice after starting suddenly. His hand extended somewhat shakily as he reached out and pointed at a section of the map which led off to the edges of the map. "Look."

Following Ron's finger, Harry looked up and noted the secret passage behind the one-eyed witch leading out toward Honeydukes in Hogsmeade. There, perhaps a fifth of the way from the entrance to the edge of the map—which corresponded with the edge of Hogwarts' boundaries—Harry saw two dots, one which was labeled as "Hermione Granger," and the other which said, "Draco Malfoy."

Eyes widening, Harry's head shot up and he peered across the Great Hall, where he saw that Draco Malfoy was sitting at the Slytherin table, still seemingly brooding over the unfairness of life. Harry looked back down at the Slytherin table on the map, but Draco Malfoy's name was missing amongst the myriad of students whose names appeared in the Great Hall.

"Polyjuice," Harry breathed as the epiphany rolled over him and his mind whirled over the implications. At the moment Harry was not certain as to how he had managed it, but it was clear that the Hufflepuff drawing Hermione away from the Great Hall had been a set up. All to allow Draco Malfoy to get his hands on Hermione…

"If he gets beyond the ward boundaries he can do just about anything," Harry breathed. But how would he get her through the sweet shop and away from Hogsmeade. And that was when the memory of the previous year hit him.

"Portkey!" Harry yelled, while jumping to his feet. "Someone get Dumbledore!" he exclaimed before turning on his heel and rushing from the hall. He felt, rather than saw, that several of his friends had followed him, but he ignored all other considerations in favor of the most pressing need: get to Hermione before Malfoy got her to the edge of the wards!

* * *

The first thing that hit Hermione's senses as consciousness returned was the sensation of weightlessness. No, perhaps it was quite weightlessness, as she could feel the pull of gravity. It was more like she was propped up on something soft as the clouds. She groaned and moved her head, attempting to stretch, wondering where she was, but for some reason she could not make her arms move. For that matter, she could not move her legs either, and though she could not feel any bindings preventing her from moving, she was stuck nonetheless.

Sudden memory invaded her mind and her eyes snapped open. She gazed about wildly trying to figure out where she was and what was happening to her. Above her she could see the rough hewn stone of a dim tunnel, the walls folding around her like a cocoon. Hermione had never been afraid of enclosed spaces, but at the moment she felt as though she was imprisoned in the small cell, where the walls closed in on her as she struggled to escape.

"I see you're awake," a hated voice intruded, a mocking quality unmistakable in its tone.

Hermione's eyes darted up and she took in the smirking visage of a certain blond Slytherin. Malfoy had his wand pointed at her, while with the other he held a luminous ball, lighting the passageway and providing an even more eerie cast to the situation, though it could just as easily be the predicament in which Hermione now found herself. He appeared to have her in a body bind and he was levitating her down the passage, to where she was not certain. Due to her proximity to the Defense Tower when he had ambushed her, and the location of the passage entrance which led to Honeydukes, it seemed that the most logical conclusion was that they were in the passage itself. What he intended, Hermione did not even which to speculate on.  
"What, you don't have anything to say, Mudblood?" Malfoy jibed after a moment. "Kneazle got your tongue? Or maybe you're just finally seeing how I'm superior to you after all. You're usually vocal about just about anything which catches your attention."

"Release me and we'll see whose superior," Hermione snapped, fighting as she was to keep her composure.

"Now why would I do that? I've got you trussed up and on your way to the Dark Lord, where you can serve him in the only way your kind is useful. He's most desirous of meeting you, I assure you."

The dark gleam in Draco's eyes bothered her every bit as much as his insinuation, and for a moment Hermione had to fight the rising panic. The thought that Harry had the map and would be actively looking for her entered her mind and she forced herself to remain calm. She just needed to give him a little time, and he would come for her. He must!

"What are you talking about?" Hermione demanded, keeping her voice modulated with some effort. "You had better let me go before Harry finds out what you're up to."

"Potter doesn't know," Malfoy sneered. "How would he? As far as he's aware, you went to meet McGonagall. By the time he finds you missing, you'll be entertaining the Dark Lord's followers, and I will have completely covered my tracks. No one will know what's happened to you until the Dark Lord decides to break Potter with the knowledge. Maybe he'll send Potter _your_ head."

"But how did you get ahead of me?" Hermione asked, grasping for straws rather than truly wondering how he had managed it.

Malfoy chuckled. "You know, for all your _supposed intelligence_ you're really rather shortsighted and stupid sometimes, Granger. It's amazing what an Imperius curse or two and a little Polyjuice will do."

Understanding blossomed in Hermione's mind. Malfoy had never actually been present in the Great Hall—it had been nothing more than a ruse to get her away from Harry and alone where he could make his move. But now what did he plan to do with her?

"You know," Malfoy said with some introspection, "it's really your fault I focused on you."

"Like it was Deborah Grantley's fault that your father committed his filthy acts on her and her family?"

Pain exploded in Hermione's face as Malfoy casually backhanded her. "I'd suggest you keep your comments to yourself, Mudblood. The Dark Lord commanded me to bring you to him, but he didn't say that you have to be unharmed. A few bruises, or perhaps a few broken bones would mean nothing to him."

He glared at her for a few moments and then began walking again, directing her along with his wand.

"Anyway, as I was saying, I could have gone after the creature instead. But you won my attention with your annoying ways, your defiance, and the fact that you raised your wand against _my father_."

His eyes gleamed coldly in the light given from his wand, and Hermione shuddered at the sight. She imagined that this look in his eyes mirrored what had been in his father's when the elder Malfoy had attacked the Grantleys. It was that look, even more than the fact that he had successfully planned this abduction, which told Hermione that for all that Malfoy had always been an ineffectual little boy, he had apparently managed to grow a set of fangs. He might never be intelligent enough to be the Slytherin that his father had been, but it was clear that he could be every bit as vicious.

"You know, that idiot Potter will probably give himself up as a ransom for you—he's stupidly noble that way. But I promise you that you'll never see the light of day again. You'll be dead before Potter even gets there to 'save' you, and then he'll be forced to accept the fact that he gave himself up for nothing."

"Do you actually think Dumbledore will allow him to give himself up?" Hermione scoffed.

"I'm counting on Potter's noble streak and his little heart being broken when he finds out you're gone. I imagine he'll do just about anything to get you back. Sickening, actually, when you consider that as a Mudblood you're good for just one thing. The creature could serve him just as well for _that_.

Malfoy looked away and appear thoughtful for a few moments before he turned back to her with a sly, yet contemptuous look. "Do you know what Death Eaters do with scum like you? They strip them of their dignity—if something as filthy as you even have any. They do it slowly and with great deliberation, first destroying any sense of modesty, then your sense of self-worth, and then finally tearing down the very pillars of your mind. I've heard some of the tactics they use. I think you might find them enlightening. At the very least, it will make a dull journey a little more interesting. You see, Granger, they start—"

"You don't have to do this!" Hermione exclaimed, interrupting him before he could begin revealing the vile acts those animals would perpetrate on her if she was not able to escape. The panic was bubbling up within her, and though she tried to fight it down, the closer they came to the ward boundaries, the more hysterical Hermione was becoming. It would be better if she died before she fell into Voldemort's hands she was certain.

"Of course I _have to!_" Malfoy responded with a snort. "The Dark Lord has commanded it, and I have obeyed.

"It's too bad I have to send you on by yourself," he mused. "I would have loved to be part of your… education." He leered at her and took her form from head to toe. "You're not bad looking after all, and I bet you're hiding some interesting secrets under those robes. It's too bad the Dark Lord wants me to make sure there is nothing Dumbledore can pin on me."

He smiled at her rather unpleasantly. "Maybe I'll be able to participate when we finally get the creature. _She's_ really something to look at, though she _is_ subhuman. Trust Potter to hook up with the dregs of society."

"Coming from someone whose father raped and killed little girls," Hermione snapped.

Once again Malfoy backhanded her, this time with a little more force. "Keep on talking, Mudblood," he jeered. "I've got plenty more I can do to you before I send you on to the Dark Lord. Of course, you never could shut up, could you?"

Feeling the panic begin to well up within her, Hermione began struggling, putting every ounce of strength, both magical and physical, into an attempt to break free. What she could do with no wand and an almost insane Draco Malfoy watching her even if she did manage to escape his spells she could not say. But she needed to try something—anything!—to escape from his clutches.

But no matter how hard she fought, it was in vain. Magic held her tightly in its control and without her wand she could not exert sufficient focus to command her magic to obey. She tried a wandless finite, she tried to summon his wand from his hand, she even tried to trip him up with jinxes, but nothing worked. There appeared to be no escape, unless someone else was to come to her rescue.

"You can't do this!" Her voice sounded shrill to even her own ears. "You'll be found out and you'll end up the same as your father. Then your precious—"

Draco flicked his wand and though she continued to speak for a few moments, she could not hear the sound of her own voice. Knowing it was useless to reason with him, even if she could make herself heard, she redoubled her efforts to somehow affect her escape.

"I would consider it an honor to end up like my father," Malfoy snapped. "He was a great man and it is only because of scum like you that he was captured. You will pay! You will all pay! The Dark Lord will make sure of it! And I will be by his side, his most trusted lieutenant and his right-hand man.

"Enjoy your last few moments of your innocence, Mudblood. Your time has now come!"

He continued to drone on about this and that, his father's "misfortune" and his plans to get even with Harry, but Hermione did not pay him any heed. Her attention was focused on trying desperately, somehow, to escape from the mad boy's clutches.

_"Come on, Harry, look at the map,"_ she pleaded, willing her boyfriend to hurry and rescue her. There was only a matter of minutes left before she would be beyond his ability to save and into the Dark Lord's clutches forever. _"Help me!"_ she screamed in the confines of her mind.

* * *

Consumed with the need to find Hermione before Malfoy could do anything to her, Harry raced out into the entrance hall. He was through it in a moment, sprinting through the corridors intent upon reaching the entrance to the passage and saving Hermione before she could be spirited from the castle. He raced on through the Transfiguration corridor, dodging around the few students who were not in the Great Hall, and using the shortest route to the Defense Tower he could think of. For a moment he almost wished that he had not run off without the map, but he knew that he would have no time whatsoever to consult it as to the best path, so he ignored the thought.

He was through the Transfiguration corridor and was sprinting the final distance to the Defense tower when he saw a spell speeding toward him from the corner of his eye. Dodging, Harry lost his balance. He went down and rolled back to his feet, his wand up and already trained in the direction from where the spell had originated, only to see the twin gorillas looming over him with expressions of hate on their stupid faces.

"Potter!" Crabbe spat as he approached with his wand held out. "It's your fault that my father's dead!"

"And mine," Goyle's belligerent voice joined him. "It's time for some payback."

Harry darted to one side, his wand already spitting out hexes. The two gorillas paled at his aggressive attack and dodged his opening spells, while they struggled to follow his movements. Perhaps Harry would not have expected to be able to best two opponents at once—even the slow and stupid followers of Draco Malfoy—but in his desperation to reach Hermione and with the adrenaline surging through his veins, the fight was over almost before it was begun.

As the two Slytherins trained their wands on him and began yelling curses, Harry pirouetted, and almost simultaneously spit off four spells in a row. The two idiots had not even bothered to cast shield spells on themselves, and were immediately hit by Harry's responding fire—a bludgeoning curse and a stunner for Goyle, and a disarming hex and banishing charm for Crabbe. Goyle dropped to the floor, unconscious, and Crabbe hit the wall behind him with some force, and then fell and did not move again. Harry did not even bother to catch the boy's wand as it sailed through the air toward him. Less than a few seconds after the confrontation had begun, Harry was up and running for the passage, only peripherally noting that several of his friends had entered the far end of the corridor as he was leaving it.

After a run of a few moments, Harry spotted the statue of the one-eyed witch at the base of the tower staircase.

"_Dissendium!_" he cried as he approached, and he watched as the witch's hump moved away, revealing the darkness of the tunnel beyond.

Sliding down the short ramp to the floor of the passage, Harry sped on into the gloom of the passage, only thinking to light the tip of his wand as the light from the corridor faded.

By this time, Harry was beginning to develop a bit of a stitch in his side, but he ignored the pain and pressed on grimly, trying to figure out how much time he had. He was uncertain just how far down the passage the school's wards extended. It was difficult to determine, as the map only covered the grounds and did not extend to Hogsmeade. He thought that they probably went at least to the midpoint of the tunnel, and considering how far along Malfoy had been when Harry had left the Great Hall, it was likely he had only a matter of moments before the Slytherin was able to spirit Hermione away forever.

It seemed like he had run for hours when Harry thought he could see the flickering of a light ahead of him. Redoubling his efforts, he ran faster, urging his flagging strength to take him the rest of the way to his love's side.

Within moments, he could make out the indistinct shape of Hogwarts robes, and the shock of blond hair on the head of his hated enemy, and he could see that the boy was levitating someone by his side. But by this time he had attracted the attention of those in front of him and he saw Malfoy turn and regard him, his face reflecting an incredulous shock.

"Let her go, Malfoy!" Harry yelled as he sprinted toward them.

"Not on your life, Potter!" Malfoy snarled.

He lay something on Hermione's chest and put his wand on the item yelling, "Mudblood!" when he had touched it with his wand. But nothing happened—he was still within the wards. Harry almost wept with relief.

Then, the vindictive boy did something which Harry would return in his nightmares until the end of his days. Growling, Malfoy stepped back from Hermione and with an expression of utter hate etched upon his features yelled, "_Sectumsempra!_" while moving his wand in a slashing motion several times. Where his wand pointed, slashes appeared in Hermione's robes and rents appeared in her skin, and in an instant, blood boiled up from the slashes on Hermione's chest. Her face contorted in a mask of pain and Harry expected to hear her screams, only to realize that Malfoy must have silenced her.

Incensed, Harry leveled his wand at the evil boy and shouted, "_Reducto!_"

His spell caught Malfoy on the shoulder and it flung him to the side of the passage where he impacted heavily with the wall. His wand went flying from his grasp and he went down in an unmoving heap.

Harry paid no attention to the Slytherin. He charged up to Hermione and yelled, "_Finite!_" as he approached, catching her and cradling her in his arms as she fell from the now-cancelled levitation spell. As her silencing spell was cancelled at the same time, he could now hear her whimpering and panting with the pain of her injuries.

Easing her to the ground, Harry stood and pulled his robes over his head, and then kneeled down and pressed them to Hermione's wounds in a vain attempt to staunch the flow of blood. As he pressed the garment in, he caught sight of the slashes, noting the slightly darkened skin about the edges. He realized that this was likely a dark curse—no normal spell would make such deep and angry gashes.

Jumping to his feet, Harry brandished his wand and yelled, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

His stag Patronus sprang forth from his wand and stood stock still, looking at him with expectation. The idle thought penetrated his mind, even while he was desperate to save Hermione, that the Patronus was behaving in a much different manner than it usually would at being summoned; normally, it would gambol about looking for potential enemies, or frolic here and there as though it was elated to finally be freed from the confines of his wand. In this instance, it seemed to understand that it was being summoned for the direst of circumstances, and so stood awaiting instructions.

"Go to Dumbledore! Hermione has been injured by a dark cutting curse. We are in the passage to Honeydukes!"

The Patronus bounded off to relay the message and Harry once again knelt by the form of his love and pressed his robe against her wounds. "Don't worry, Hermione," he tried to reassure her, even as tears were streaming down his face, "Dumbledore will be here soon. He'll know what to do."

But despite his bravado, Harry knew that Hermione inching closer to death, could feel her life's blood leaking from her wounds and pooling under her. Choking back a sob, Harry wracked his brain for anything which would help staunch the bleeding and allow his friend to hold onto life long enough for help to arrive.

He was startled from his concentration on his task by a light touch on his arm. He looked down to see Hermione's hand touching his arm, as lightly as a feather, though her strength seemed to fail her, and her hand fell limply once again by her side. Her eyes were full of pain, but they were clear—the dark brown eyes that he had grown to love so dearly. She appeared to be trying to speak, but Harry, wanting her to conserve her energy as much as possible, shook his head.

"Don't speak. Help is on the way."

But Hermione would not be denied. With what appeared to be an extreme force of willpower, she grasped his arms and pulled him down until his ear was only inches from her own. And then she whispered words which both elated him, and filled him with despair.

* * *

As the pain from the curse washed over her, Hermione felt Harry catch her and lower her to the floor. He had found her.

She was vaguely aware of his actions as he summoned his Patronus and sent it off with a message, before returning to her and cradling her to him, pressing his hands to her wounds. It was curious, she decided, that as he did so, the pain of her wounds began to lessen, and she felt herself beginning to drift upon the waves of consciousness.

Hermione knew in that instant that she would die. But much as the thought made her immensely sad at the thought of the life with Harry which had been stolen from her, Hermione felt a sort of acceptance course through her. A violent death at the hands of the despicable boy who had tormented her since she had entered the magical world was not a death she would have chosen. But at least Harry was here. He would hold her and comfort her as she passed from the confines of this world, ushering her forth into the next life where she would await his coming.

Regrets! She had many. Among them the fact that she would not be able to say goodbye to her parents, and that she would leave her friends behind in the time when they needed her most. But she was also sorry to be leaving Harry behind to face the monster on his own, when she had sworn to always be by his side. Fleur would have to take up the mantle of his protection now, and Hermione could not think of anyone better than the French witch to protect him. Fleur would see Harry through his sorrow.

But Hermione could not leave without telling Harry what she felt for him—the very thought was inconceivable. And for this reason, she forced her eyes open, and reached up to touch his arm, gazing at him, almost crying at the unfairness of it all when his amazing green eyes focused upon hers. She attempted to speak, but found it almost impossible to force the words from her lips.

"Don't speak," Harry said, though his words almost seemed like they were spoken from a great distance. Or perhaps he was speaking through a mask which was muffling his voice. It did not matter—nothing mattered any more. "Help is on the way."

Shaking her head as much as her failing strength allowed, Hermione forced her arms up, though they felt like they were encased in solid rock, and she grasped his own, pulling him down with a grip which would not be denied. Reluctantly, Harry allowed himself to be brought near to her lips.

"Always remember, Harry," she rasped, "that I love you more than anything in the world."

Her strength spent, Hermione allowed her arms to collapse next to her. She gazed once more into the depths of his emerald eyes before she sighed once and her eyes fluttered closed.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Once again thanks to everyone who continues to read, review, or even just give my little yarn a glance.

2. I'm certainly glad that no one has my address right about now! Really, everyone, I've been leading up to this in the whole "Draco is focusing on Hermione" subplot since they returned to Hogwarts after summer break. You should have seen it coming, especially after I posted a list of the upcoming major events several chapters ago. It's a simple matter of them underestimating Draco's ability to act like a Slytherin. Though I maintain that he's more Gryffindor—stupid Gryffindor who never considers the consequences of his actions—than anything, he's not _completely stupid!_

3. Don't despair—the next chapter has already been written, and I'll put you out of your misery next week, rather than wait my standard two weeks to update. The results of the attack will be known by the end of the next chapter.

4. While I'm on the subject of pre-writing chapters, I've been writing like crazy lately, and have managed to complete (in rough draft, of course) more than a chapter a week over the course of the past several weeks, giving me a bit of a cushion again. Outside of next week's post, I'll continue to post every two weeks for the time being, but if I can manage to build up a cushion of ten chapters or so, I may just move to weekly posting. I'm getting to the point in the story where it's more interesting to write and consequently easier to write in some respects. But I'm also reaching the point where I want it to be done!


	50. Chapter 49 – One Soul to Another

******Previously:** Hermione is summoned away from breakfast to meet with McGonagall, but is ambushed on the way. Harry realizes they were tricked and, finding Hermione on the map with Malfoy, sprints off to save her. When he catches up, Malfoy hits Hermione with a _Sectumsempra_ curse before Harry can prevent it. She slips into unconsciousness as Harry works to try and save her.

* * *

**Chapter 49 – One Soul to Another**

With his fear almost rendering him incapacitated, Harry watched one of the girls he loved as her eyes fluttered closed and she slumped into his arms. For Harry, the whole world ceased to exist. For a moment after her eyes closed his heart seemed to cease beating.

It appeared like Hermione was gone.

He leaned down and pressed his ear to her face, immensely relieved to detect the feather touch of her breath against his cheek. But each breath, each rise and fall of her chest, as much as he could discern, appeared to be labored, each one coming more difficult than the last.

Hermione was dying. He might have only moments before she left him.

He frantically tried to stop the flow of blood, but his robes were already becoming soaked with her life's blood and the flow was quickly becoming sluggish. He knew no healing charms and had no potions available to aid in her recovery, but he knew that Dumbledore would be only a few moments behind him. If she could hold on for a few more moments all would be well. It had to be!

But a few moments were more than it appeared Hermione had. As he continued to focus on staunching the flow of blood, Hermione's breaths continued to become shallower. And when Hermione shuddered for what appeared to be the final time, Harry acted more by instinct than any conscious thought.

Reaching out with every sense he possessed, Harry _pushed_ out with his magic, reaching, grasping, and feeling for her presence. He flailed about for a few anxious moments before the tendrils of this questing seemed to latch on to something, and through his senses—though he could not have said what sense it actually was—he could feel the vibrancy that was Hermione. He latched on to her presence with the tenderness and fervor of a lover, drawing her to him, intent upon never letting go. All at once he could feel the warmth and beauty that was Hermione envelop him like a warm comforting blanket. Harry could not be certain what he was doing, but what ever it was, he felt the rise and fall of her chest resume once again and the feel of her breath on his cheek as he leaned forward. She seemed to be stabilized, or perhaps it was more correct to suggest that at the very least she was not worsening.

Unconscious of anything but the need to keep Hermione with him, Harry struggled to hold on to her. Almost immediately he felt the strain of doing so, the strength he possessed beginning to ebb away as quickly as though he had been running for days without respite. Grimly Harry held on, willing more and more of himself into maintaining his tenuous grasp on the life of his closest friend, hoping desperately that someone would arrive quickly. At the rate he was tiring he was not certain how long he could hold on.

* * *

For the first morning in more than a week, Albus Dumbledore was enjoying having nothing more to do than enjoy a cup of tea, flavored with his favorite blend of lemon and sugar—his fondness for lemons extended well beyond his ever-present lemon drops—and sit in his office with the morning newspaper. He had eschewed breakfast in the Great Hall that morning, partially because he thought a little solitude would do him good, and partially because he did not consider himself good company that morning.

The fact of the matter was that he was troubled. The trials had taken much out of him—and out of the Wizarding world in general, he suspected—and now they would have to deal with the fallout. What form it would take, Albus was uncertain, but knowing Tom Riddle as he did, Albus did not doubt that the response would be violent and bloody, and it would not be long before Tom made his move.

He had taken a brief moment to have a word with Severus the night before, but while he appeared to still be in good stead with Voldemort, he reported that his information was now seen as suspect. Even more, Voldemort was now questioning his information more than ever before. It was an unfortunate consequence of the incident at the Ministry, but given the fact that Voldemort had ultimately been kept from obtaining the prophecy, it was worth it. Severus would still be able to glean information from the Death Eaters, and though they would be required to be more careful, it was still possible that he could feed disinformation to Voldemort. And now that the Ministry was on a war footing, their capability to defend against Voldemort's aggression had never been higher.

The executions the previous day _did_ bother Albus. He was not concerned over the fact that the men had been put to death—they had deserved that and more for their actions. No, he was always more concerned with the fact that their lives had been wasted on hatred and vile deeds. As an educator for many of the years of his life, it was Albus's goal to make certain that every young person achieved their dreams and contributed to society; it was a hard pill to swallow when some of those who passed through the halls of Hogwarts used their talents to the detriment of society rather than its benefit. And though Albus knew that there was no reasonable way in which he could be held personally accountable for what they had become, he was still beset by regrets.

There was nothing to be done. Lucius Malfoy and his compatriots had chosen their own course and had paid the price for their actions. No matter how he or anyone else tried, not everyone would turn out well. Everyone had their own freedom of choice, after all, and if some should choose an evil path, then the consequences would be on their heads.

Thus it was, as he was musing that morning, that his reverie was disturbed by a bright and shining Patronus in the shape of a stag. It was one he knew very well indeed. It entered and paused for the briefest of moments, one ethereal hoof pawing at the floor, before it delivered its message:

_Hermione has been injured by a dark cutting curse. We are in the passage to Honeydukes!_

Leaping to his feet, Albus glanced over at the perch of his ever-faithful familiar and companion, regretting the fact that the phoenix had just the night before undergone a burning day. The phoenix would have been useful for more than one reason, Albus suspected rather ruefully.

Grasping a parchment from the top of his desk, Albus pointed his wand at it and intoned, "_Portus!_" The paper glowed blue for the briefest of moments, before it faded, and it once again appeared to be nothing more than a commonplace school document. Taking a deep breath, Albus held it in his hand and called out, "Tunnel!" The familiar sensation of a Portkey washed over him and after the extremely brief journey, Albus found himself standing in the darkness of the tunnel.

Lighting his wand, Albus looked in both directions of the tunnel. He had placed himself near the exit through the one-eyed witch, thinking that if the stricken girl was near the entrance, he would be able to see her and if not, he would be able to proceed in the correct direction, thereby wasting as little time as possible. As the light of his wand showed nothing toward the entrance, Albus turned and immediately began hurrying toward Hogsmeade with a swiftness which belied his great age. Never had he been more grateful that as a side effect of having magic, the body was allowed to age in a much slower and more graceful manner.

As he moved down the passage, Albus wondered what could have happened, while fearing the possibilities. That the passage was where Miss Granger's injury had occurred was an oddity, and unless she had for some reason arranged a duel within its confines—something Albus doubted very much—then it left he possibility that she had been attacked, though again why it would have occurred in this out of the way place was a mystery. There were several… unsavory possibilities to consider, chief among them being Mr. Potter's concern for her and Mr. Malfoy which he had shared only a few short days before. If something happened to the girl in the manner that Harry had feared, Albus could only fear the consequence of such an occurrence.

All too soon his suppositions were proven correct. After a few short moments of hurrying along the passage he saw a dim light up in the distance. He approached at an even swifter pace, only to see the boy he looked upon almost as a grandchild, cradled over the unmoving body of the girl Albus suspected he felt much more for than mere friendship. Several other figures moved in the gloom and as Albus moved closer, he could identify them as Miss Delacour and Miss Lovegood—who was hovering over the pair worriedly—and Mr. Weasley and Mr. Longbottom, who were guarding Mr. Malfoy, who was lying on the floor of the passage. Clearly Harry's concerns had been realized.

* * *

After Harry had raced from the Great Hall, Fleur, accompanied by Ron, Luna, and Neville, had followed, Ron yelling at Ginny to get Dumbledore. Peripherally, she was aware of several Gryffindors—among them the Weasley twins—who approached the apparently false Draco Malfoy to confront him, but Fleur was beyond such concerns, worried for her closest female friend as she was.

Swiftly they moved from the Great Hall and down toward the Defense Tower, but they were no match for Harry. With a speed borne of desperation, Harry quickly outdistanced them all, ignoring all requests for him to wait for them, if he even heard them at all. Frustrated, Fleur tried to increase her speed—they could not be certain what awaited them, after all, and Fleur did not potentially want to lose Harry to Malfoy, in addition to Hermione.

The passed the results of his short fight with Malfoy's Slytherin bookends, only slowing to look and ensure that they were incapacitated with a quick incarcerous, before entering the tunnel, making the long trek down the passage, hoping that Harry had managed to stop the Slytherin without falling to the boy's wand in his haste.

Just as Fleur was becoming concerned that Malfoy _had_ made it beyond the edge of Hogwarts' wards, she saw a dim light ahead in the tunnel. She looked at her companions, all of whom were now panting heavily at their exertions, and grimly met several pairs of eyes, while moving forward at a more cautious pace. The disastrous scene which met their eyes as they moved forward shocked them.

Harry was holding Hermione to his chest, but neither was moving. Beyond them lay the still form of Draco Malfoy, who appeared to have been flung back to collide obliquely with the wall before falling in a heap on the floor of the passage.

As they approached, Fleur let out a gasp of dismay and sorrow. Hermione's face was pale and her life's blood had spilled all over the floor, coating Harry's hands and tainting his clothes such that Fleur doubted the stain would ever be able to be removed.

"That bastard!" Ron exclaimed as he fell to his knees by Harry's side and reached out and unsteady hand toward the stricken girl.

"Ronald! Neville!" Luna snapped. "Go get Malfoy's wand and watch him."

The two boys looked at the ethereal blond in shock. Fleur could hardly believe her ears at the sound of such an authoritative Luna—it was so unlike her to be so… commanding and direct. After a moment, however, both boys nodded and skirted Harry and Hermione—though Fleur noted that they found it difficult to tear their eyes away from the sight—and went to check on the prone figure of the Slytherin.

Luna moved forward, already ignoring the two boys, and she fixed her eyes upon Hermione. Fleur quickly made her way to Luna's side, though she watched the girl out of the corner of her eye, wondering if she had ever actually seen the girl clear. Luna must have known that she was under observation, as she turned to eye Fleur with a raised eyebrow.

"The boys wouldn't be any use in this situation," she said airily. "They're both obviously infected with a serious case of Hufflumps and they'd only get in the way."

"Hufflumps?" Fleur asked in spite of herself.

Luna nodded. "Hufflumps are small, insect-like creatures which get into your muscles and paralyze you. Giving Ron and Neville something to occupy themselves will help them overcome the infestation."

Knowing better than to question her unusual friend any further, Fleur turned her attention back to the motionless pair on the floor of the passage, watching as Luna knelt down next to Harry, heedless of Hermione's blood which liberally coated the floor. Carefully, Luna reached out and lifted up Harry's bunched up robes, only to wince when she could see underneath.

"What is it?" Fleur asked, feeling near to tears.

"Some sort of cutting curse, though I've never quite seen the like," Luna replied, shaking her head.

Fleur moved in a little closer to where Luna had lifted the robe, and underneath, she could see the edge of Hermione's torso and could just see the end of a long slash over Hermione's hip. The slash was vivid red in the center, while blackened along the edges. Luna was right—no normal cutting hex had caused Hermione's wounds.

Meanwhile, Luna was running her wand over Hermione, muttering under her breath. Fleur was quiet, allowing the blond to work on her friend for the moment, her worry growing with each moment Luna continued to work.

At length, Luna stopped her muttering, and leaned back.

"What is it?" Fleur asked, trying not to be too demanding.

"I have a bit of knowledge of healing spells, but this is completely beyond me," Luna replied. "Ginny was going to get Dumbledore, right?"

Fleur only nodded. "Do you know what it is?"

Luna shook her head. "I know it's dark, but I can't tell you what it is. Some sort of dark cutting curse. I tried a general healing spell, but it was no good. She needs Madam Pomfrey's attention and some blood replenishers."

Trembling, Fleur reached out to touch Hermione's arm, noting as she did the cold, clamminess of her skin. "Will she make it?" Fleur asked with a noticeable tremor in her voice.

"I don't know," Luna said with a sigh. "She is still alive, but I'm not sure quite how. I think Harry is doing something to hold on to her, but I'm pretty sure if she doesn't receive Madam Pomfrey's attention very soon, whatever Harry is doing won't be enough."

With a stifled sob, Fleur reached out to both of her closest friends, only to be brought up short by the sound of an authoritative voice.

"Do not disturb them, Miss Delacour."

* * *

As Albus hurried to the side of the stricken girl he noticed two things—first, Fleur and Luna were dangerously close to disturbing Harry—which he immediately handled by warning her back—while the second was that Mr. Malfoy had not gained consciousness, which was probably a good thing for the boy, given the looks on the faces of young Mr. Weasley and Mr. Longbottom. He did not doubt that the vengeance they would exact upon the Malfoy scion would be swift, given even a hint of an opportunity, and Albus could not state for a fact that it was not deserved when he considered the condition of Miss Granger.

"Mr. Weasley, Mr. Longbottom," he called out to the two boys. "Please watch Mr. Malfoy and keep him restrained should he awake. We will deal with him when the time comes, but Miss Granger is the priority now."

The two boys nodded, sending grim but determined glances at other, but Albus had already turned his attention to the two girls who sat around Harry and the girl he had cradled in his arms.

"Miss Delacour, Miss Lovegood, you must tell me what you have discovered while I examine Miss Granger, but under no circumstances are you to disturb Mr. Potter in any way. Any interruption may be very detrimental to them both. Now, please tell me what you know of Miss Granger's injuries."

The Lovegood girl took the lead—unsurprising, as to the best of Albus's knowledge, Miss Delacour's talents did not extend to the healing arts—and as Albus listened to the recitation of the Miss Granger's injuries, Albus found himself fearing the worst. He pulled back the robes which covered Miss Granger, and noted the angry wounds, not to mention the fact that the bleeding had become very sluggish. Clearly, Miss Granger had almost bled out and Harry's intervention was the only thing keeping her alive.

As Albus's eyes wandered over Miss Granger's torso, he pulled back the robes slightly further, and gasped at the sight of several of the wounds crisscrossing each other, and in a moment of epiphany, he knew what he was dealing with. Unfortunately, he also knew that he did not have the knowledge to help her. However, he suspected he knew who knew the counter-curse, if any such existed.

Rising suddenly, Albus motioned to Miss Lovegood to stand as well, before speaking to both girls. "Time is now of the essence." He pulled out his wand and gestured to Luna. "Miss Lovegood, may I see your wand please?"

Without comment the young girl handed her wand to him and Albus waved his own over the wand, intoning, "_Portus!_" The wand glowed blue for a moment before handing it back to her.

"I have enchanted your wand to be a portkey. Please be careful, as the activation word is 'emergency.' When you state the word while holding your wand in your hand, it will take you to the infirmary, and bring you back here when repeat it. Whatever you do, do not accidentally use the word when you speak with Madam Pomfrey when you meet her in the infirmary while holding your wand, or it will bring you back immediately."

Miss Lovegood nodded at the instructions. "Very well. You will go immediately, and have the nurse bring back everything she will need to assist Miss Granger. She will almost certainly need blood replenishing potions, but Madam Pomfrey will know what else to bring. Go now."

Nodding determinedly, Luna said the pass phrase and disappeared.

"Now, Miss Delacour, I must leave to bring someone who can help with these wounds, as I doubt Madam Pomfrey knows the counter. You must watch them both carefully, and if it appears that Mr. Potter is flagging, you must separate them."

Miss Delacour's eyes appeared troubled. "Won't Hermione die if I do?"

Albus sighed. "Although I am loathe to lose such a wonderful young woman of the potential of Miss Granger, Mr. Potter can serious harm himself. His attempt to save Miss Granger is very noble and so very Harry, but it is also very draining. If he pushes himself past his limits, he can literally kill himself."

Fleur's hand went to her mouth and tears formed in her eyes. The two young people had done very well to connect to such an extent, Albus thought, and in only a very short time. Though he supposed it would properly be termed as _three_ young people, as Miss Granger was very close to them both.

"I do not say this lightly, my dear," Albus said soothingly. "But if Harry's strength flags, Hermione will die. If you do not separate them, he may die too. It truly may come down to a choice between losing one or both of them. I promise you I will return as quickly as I am able."

At Fleur's nod, Albus once again took out his parchment and enchanted it, and with a softly spoken, "Rescue!" he once again felt the pull of the portkey. Moments later he was standing in the potions master's office. Of the potions master himself there was no sign.

Hoping against hope that Severus was not out of the castle dealing with Voldemort, Albus closed his eyes and after a moment of centering himself, Albus reached out and tapped into the castle's wards. As always, the sensation of being in tune with the awesome power of the wards almost drove Albus to his knees—tapping the wards was not something done lightly and it was very draining, but the life of a student was at stake and he would do anything he could to see her saved.

Focusing on the presence of Severus Snape, Albus queried the wards, feeling a profound relief when the wards reported that Severus was in the castle. Now he needed to find the man. Sending his senses out, Albus roved this way and that throughout the lines of the castles wards and walls. He checked the most likely areas first—Severus was not in the Great Hall, nor in his quarters, nor was he in his potions lab. Turning yet again, Albus moved closer to the potions classroom, and it was there that he caught a hint of the man for whom he was searching. Severus was currently two corridors down from the classroom, heading in its direction.

Instantly Albus broke the connection to the school's ward, ignoring the feeling of fatigue which settled over him, even after only the few moments in which he had been immersed in the wards. Flicking his wand, Albus cancelled the previous portkey on the parchment and then reset the location, immediately triggering the device.

He materialized at an almost perfect location, just in front of the where the potions master was now approaching the classroom. Rather than start at Albus's sudden appearance, as may have been expected, Severus merely raised an eyebrow and halted. "Headmaster?"

"There is no time, Severus," Albus stated. "You are needed immediately. Please grasp this parchment so that we may leave immediately."

Although with a slight hesitation, Snape quickly took hold of the parchment, and a moment later they were back in the tunnel.

* * *

In the tunnel, Neville stonily watched the scene, outwardly striving to remain stoic and unaffected, though inside he was seething, angry as he could ever remember being. Malfoy was a cockroach—a foul little copy of his father, and worthy of nothing more than contempt and ridicule. As he watched as Luna and Fleur worked on Hermione, then as the headmaster arrived and then suddenly departed, Neville thought about the girl who had been assaulted by the Slytherin lying at his feet.

Though Neville would never admit it out loud—and had practically never even admitted it to himself—he was more than a little in love with the girl who lay bleeding in Harry's arms. He could not imagine how anyone could not be in love with her—she was such a caring, helpful, intelligent girl, he did not know anyone who possessed even a fraction of the compassion that Hermione possessed. Well, except for perhaps the boy who was even now cradling her in his arms.

And there was the rub. Neville imagined it would be very easy to completely let himself go and allow himself to be carried away with whatever feelings he possessed for Hermione. He had resisted, however, allowing himself to sit back and be content with being in Harry and Hermione's orbit and, as of this year, be their close friend and supporter. The reason was that Neville had realized early on that Hermione, though special in many ways, shared such a profound relationship with Harry, that her heart could really only ever belong to him. If it been anyone other than Harry Potter, he could have envisioned seeing if he could turn her affections his way. But Neville cared too much about Harry, respected him too much, to ever cause problems or attempt to steal Hermione's love away from him.

That did not mean that Neville didn't love Luna. On the contrary, Luna was a breath of fresh air, and he loved spending time with her. She was almost the opposite of Hermione, but Neville did not allow that irony to bother him at all. Luna was aware of at least some measure of his esteem for the Muggleborn girl but, far from being threatened by it or jealous of his affections, she had made it clear that though she did not share much in common with Hermione, she esteemed her every bit as much as Neville did.

And now Hermione lay in Harry's arms dying… Neville had to blink back the tears at the very thought. He could do nothing about that, though he burned to help his friends and do _something_ to keep the special girl among the living. But he would do what he could, and what he could was to watch Malfoy and make sure that he could do no further harm. Neville could also be the best he could be, supporting Harry and ensuring that whatever may come, he was there by his friend's side, whether that entailed helping his friend come to terms with Hermione's death, or helping _both of them_, along with Fleur, as they opposed Voldemort. He would do it, no matter the cost.

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he saw Malfoy begin to stir, a soft groan issuing from his lips. Sharing a cold glare with Ron, Neville moved closer and crouched down to Malfoy's eye level. As the boy's eyes fluttered open, the first thing he appeared to focus on was Neville's face, and the sight could not have been pleasant for him—if looks could flay the boy alive, Malfoy would have been nothing more than a bloody splotch upon the ground by now.

Malfoy scrambled to reach his knees and backed up hurriedly, casting wild eyes at both boys when he became aware of their silent and stony scrutiny. Then, of course, he began to search desperately for his wand.

"Looking for this?" Neville taunted, holding up the desired item.

Eyes narrowed, Malfoy lunged for his wand, only to meet Neville's fist—Neville was most satisfied with the resounding _smack_ which resulted in his knuckles meeting Malfoy's jaw—and go down in a heap. Once again the boy groaned as he hit the floor of the tunnel, and he glared up at Neville with eyes full of hate.

"If you know what's good for you, squib—"

"If you know what's good _for you_, you'll stay silent," Neville hissed. "Believe me, Malfoy; it wouldn't take much for either Ron or I to impale you on your own wand. I'd shut up if I were you."

Fear bloomed in Malfoy's eyes and he settled heavily on the tunnel floor. As he did, his eyes turned toward where Harry still sat cradling Hermione's form, and his face screwed up in an unpleasant sneer.

"At least there will be one less Mudblood dirtying the world with her presence."

Neville exchanged a nod with Ron, and Ron's wand came up and he hit Malfoy in the crotch with a stinging hex. Malfoy yelped, and as he did so, he ran once again into Neville's descending fist. Now Malfoy and the other Slytherins likely had not gotten the image of Neville as a first year—slightly pudgy and shy—from their heads, but Neville had grown in the intervening years. He was now tall—almost as tall as Ron—and the pudginess he had possessed as a lad of eleven, was now the lean yet solid mass of a growing boy. He had certainly not achieved his full growth, and undoubtedly would not for several years yet, but he was far from what he had been. For the second time in as many minutes, Malfoy found that out to his detriment.

The boy hit the floor with a cry, and held his face in his hand, where he was almost certain to have a black eye before the end of the day, while his other hand held the part of his anatomy which Ron had assaulted.

"You know," Neville said to Ron as he flexed his hand, "I think I understand now why Muggles seem to enjoy using their fists. Actually hitting someone is much more satisfying than just hexing them."

Ron glared down at Malfoy who, while still holding his injured parts, appeared to have been cowed for the moment. "If he tries anything again, _I'm _the one who gets to hit him."

"Be my guest," Neville said with a wave at Malfoy, who was peering up at them appearing shocked, as though he had never actually seen them before, not to mention being shocked at the physical violence. It was not something, after all, one would normally expect in the magical world.

"You don't suppose we'll get in trouble for this?"

Neville shrugged. "I'm not sure I care, to be honest. Besides, he's already pretty beat up. We can just claim that it was all part of him hitting the wall. I doubt anyone would listen to him if he claimed we'd been hitting him.

Ron just grunted, while appearing to dare Malfoy to make any more stupid comments or rash moves with nothing more than a disdainful glare. For once in his life Malfoy seemed to understand the threat and realize that his so-called standing in society would not protect him. He stayed silent.

"I'd hate to be him if Harry gets his hands on him, whether Hermione recovers or not," Neville said darkly to Ron.

Ron made no reply, but Malfoy stole a glance over at the still unmoving Harry, who was still holding on to Hermione, but they were now both being attended by Madam Pomfrey, who had portkeyed in while they were intimidating the Slytherin.

"I hope, for her own sake, she recovers. To be honest, I don't care what happens to this filth."

Neville nudged Malfoy again, half hoping to get a rise out of him again, but the boy stayed silent. It was perhaps petty to provoke the boy with the sole purpose of exacting revenge, but at the moment it felt satisfying. Undoubtedly Malfoy would now be facing a difficult future as a result of his actions, and Neville was more than happy to initiate him in the life he would now face.

* * *

Anxiously wringing her hands, Fleur kept her silent vigil over Harry and Hermione, willing Madam Pomfrey and the headmaster to hurry and return. There had been no overt change in the demeanors of either of her friends, but she could tell from the strained grimace on his face that Harry was tiring, and a sheen of sweat had appeared, beginning to bead on his forehead. She did not know how much longer he could keep up whatever he was doing, but as of yet she had not been able to see any indication of what Professor Dumbledore had warned her. Harry was holding his own for the time being.

As she watched him pour himself into the effort of keeping Hermione alive, Fleur was able to reflect upon the past months at Hogwarts and the time she had spent as his betrothed. She had never experienced the feeling of having such close friends before, or at least not since she was a small girl, and she found that being a part of the group which Harry had built around himself to be very satisfying.

But as she watched the boy she had not-so-secretly fallen in love with, watched his devotion to the girl in his arms and the effort he put into her recovery, Fleur felt pride at his giving nature and hope for the girl's recovery. However, in a deep corner of her mind, she also felt a feeling with which she was for the most part unfamiliar: jealousy. Harry was so devoted to Hermione. He would literally do anything for her, including lay down his own life, which he seemed to be in the process of doing, should help not arrive in time and Fleur be unable to pull him back from the brink.

Immediately, however, Fleur felt embarrassed to be entertaining feelings of jealousy at such a time. Hermione's life was in the balance, and they were all very fortunate that Harry was who he was—a caring, selfless individual who did not even give the matter a passing thought before hurling himself into danger to save a friend. Of course, it was precisely that quality which gave them all premature grey hair as well…

Besides, Fleur had no need to feel jealous of Hermione. She could feel through her Veela senses, as well as through her own eyes, that Harry was starting to feel for her what she felt for him. It was only a matter of time before they openly declared it to each other. She could only hope that her friend would be there to wish them joy.

A flicker at the corners of Fleur's eyes announced the arrival of Luna accompanied by the hospital matron, and Madam Pomfrey immediately stepped forward, her wand moving in the intricate movements of diagnostic charms.

"My, my," she murmured as she waved her wand and frowned at whatever the charms were telling her. "I've never seen such a thing in my life."

"Will she be okay?"

Madam Pomfrey shook her head and reached into her bag which she had dropped to her side. "I'm afraid I don't know, my girl. The first thing we must do is to replace the blood she has lost, but if we can't get those cuts closed, she'll just continue to bleed and all the potions in the world will be for naught. There is a limit to how much blood replenishment she can absorb."

"The headmaster said he would bring someone who would know what to do," Fleur told her.

The nurse nodded her head as she withdrew several potions form her bag. "That is good, for dark curses can be tricky to deal with, and they will often resist my healing spells." Setting the potions off to the side, Madam Pomfrey turned her attention back to the girl in Harry's arms. "Now, I believe I need to remove these robes covering her wounds so that we can see what we are dealing with."

"But the headmaster said we mustn't disturb Harry," Fleur blurted out, fearing for her friends' lives.

"So Miss Lovegood told me," Madam Pomfrey replied, while touching Fleur lightly on the arm. "I shall not disturb him, I assure you. But I must get a clearer picture of what we are dealing with."

With a careful wave of her wand, the matron vanished Harry's robes and bared Hermione's torso for them all to see. Fleur sucked in a sob which threatened to escape, as she saw the damage to Hermione's frame. There were perhaps as many as half a dozen vicious-looking slashes marring the skin of her chest and stomach, extending almost from her neck, all the way down to her hips. There was not much left of her clothes to cover her modesty, but Fleur supposed that that was the least of the girl's concerns at the moment. Besides, Neville and Ron appeared to be occupied with Malfoy—who now seemed to be awake, and somewhat the worse for wear—and were not paying any attention to what they were doing.

"Now, I believe that you were instructed to only separate Mr. Potter from Miss Granger if he showed visible signs of exhausting his strength, is that correct?"

Fleur was surprised. "How did you know?"

"I know what he is doing to keep her alive," the nurse replied. "It is a very dangerous thing to do, but I would not expect anything less from Mr. Potter, especially given _who_ he is doing it to."

"But how—?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Delacour," Pomfrey interrupted her, "but we must focus on what is important here. Are you both ready to assist me?"

Fleur and Luna both nodded as the other girl knelt close by.

"Good. Then we shall wait until the headmaster returns before we do anything. Hopefully he will have someone with him who can help. If so, we can treat her in tandem.

"However, if Mr. Potter appears to run up to the end of his strength, I will then need you, Miss Delacour, to break the link between them. I will levitate her slightly off his lap, and then if you pull him away so they are no longer touching and in close proximity, the connection will break. Do you understand?"

Fleur nodded, and the nurse then turned to Luna. "Once the connection is broken, Miss Granger will die—she does not have enough blood left in her body to sustain her. Therefore, when they are separated, we will need to move quickly. You will feed her blood replenishing potions, massaging her neck in order to get her to swallow. You know how to do this?"

This time it was Luna's turn to affirm her understanding. "I will apply essence of dittany to her wounds and attempt to use my standard healing spells, which I suspect will not work, as I do not know the curse which was used against her. This will give us a few more precious moments to allow the headmaster to return.

"However, if they do not return by the time she has bled out again, then I'm afraid there is nothing we can do to save her. But we must do our utmost to make sure that she survives long enough."

The matron fell silent after that, busily preparing her potions for when they would be needed, while Luna and Fleur fell into their own thoughts. It was perhaps, the longest seeming time Fleur had ever spent, though in reality it was only perhaps two minutes. In that time, however, she watched Harry closely for any signs of his losing strength, but other than a tightening around his eyes and a certainly rigidity which the nurse had pointed out in his frame, he was silent and still. Then just when Fleur thought that she would go mad from the waiting, the headmaster appeared in the narrow corridor, accompanied by none other than the hated potions master.

Fleur scowled at the unpleasant man, but he ignored her, dropping to his knees by the side of the two teens. He inspected Hermione—and even managed to avoid sneering at Harry—before he looked back up at headmaster.

"Was it Draco?"

Dumbledore pointed further down the passage to where Malfoy was being guarded by the two Gryffindor boys. "It was indeed. I can only conjecture that he was trying to kidnap her and take her to Voldemort."

A gasp escaped Madam Pomfrey's lips as she gazed up at the headmaster in horror. Professional that she was, she had undoubtedly focused on the situation, never giving any thought to what had happened to render a student in this state. Doubtless she was well aware of the Death Eaters' tactics in the first conflict.

"I believe we should focus on the situation at hand," Dumbledore said gently, steering the attention back to the injured teen.

"Can I work on her while you perform the counter-charm?" Pomfrey asked Snape.

The potions master merely nodded in reply. He began waving his wand over Hermione's body, muttering something under his breath. Fleur could not make out the words, but the words almost appeared to be a melodic chant, or perhaps crooned in a low tone of voice. Where his wand pointed at the girl, her slashes began to close, the skin repairing itself, and the color returning to normal. At the same time, Madam Pomfrey began feeding potions to Hermione, gently encouraging her to swallow. And by the time the Professor had finished his singing, Hermione gagged, signaling that she had had enough of the replenishment potion. Madam Pomfrey then began to apply the dittany liberally to Hermione's torso, and even the lines of the slashes began to heal and disappear.

After a tense few moments wherein the healer waved her wand in complicated patterns at Hermione, Pomfrey looked up at the headmaster, her eyes shining suspiciously. "I believe she will make it, Albus."

At this pronouncement, a feeling of intense relief washed over Fleur and she heard a few sighs from the other occupants, not to mention whoops of joy from a pair of young Gryffindors standing guard over a now scowling Slytherin.

"She will need a day or two in the hospital wing to recover, but she'll live. We need to get her up there so that I can do more tests to make sure we haven't missed anything."

The Headmaster nodded and turned to Fleur. "We need to wake Mr. Potter now, Miss Delacour. I will need you catch him as he will be quite weak from his experience." He then turned back to his two staff members. "Severus, thank you for your assistance. Will you accompany Miss Granger back to the hospital wing in the event your services are required?"

The potions master hesitated for a moment, and Fleur saw him dart a glance at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye. His expression did not give anything away, but regardless of the fact that Fleur knew he supported the light—though obviously reluctant to do so—she could not but feel that he felt nothing but disdain for the young Pureblood. Whether that was because of what he had done—or had attempted to do—or simply because Malfoy had failed, Fleur could not tell. What she was certain of was that Snape would undoubtedly not care in the slightest what happened to Hermione or anyone else, as long as Voldemort was ultimately brought down.

"Very well," Dumbledore continued. "Let us wake Mr. Potter before it is too late."

* * *

Time had no meaning. The struggle to keep his friend anchored to the world consumed Harry and as the time wore on it became more desperate, akin to hanging on to a sheer rock face with his fingernails. But hang on he did, even as the strain became greater, even as his strength began to flag, and even as the temptation to just let go began to take root in the confines of his mind.

He refused to even consider such a thing. As he grimly held on, the bright and vibrant presence of his friend stayed with him, never wavering and for Harry, that was enough. As long as there was strength in his body, soul and magic, he would not admit defeat.

As Harry grimly held on, he began to experience something he would not have expected, not even within his wildest dreams. Thoughts and flashes, memories of his friendship with Hermione began to pass before his eyes, images of the things they had done, the time they had spent together, and their shared adventures. It started as a trickle and picked up steam until it was a deluge of thoughts, ideas and feelings. And then just as suddenly as it started, Harry found himself in another place.

* * *

_ It was a typical room in a typical house, though unlike the Dursleys' home, this one felt comfortable and welcoming, something which the Dursleys could never have boasted, even for those who were welcome there. In the corner there was a large fireplace, in which roared a large and cheery fire, the furniture was clean and handsome, but comfortable, and the rest of the décor were much the same. On the walls hung simple pieces of artwork along with pictures, preserved lovingly in handsome frames._

_ Intrigued, Harry stepped closer to investigate. They were Muggle pictures, as they did not move, and they seemed to consist of a family of three—parents, and a young girl. The girl, of course, was Hermione Granger._

_ Looking around yet again, Harry surmised that his must by Hermione's home where she lived with her parents. Or at least where she lived during the summer months when she was at Hogwarts. Looking around, Harry could not see anyone else in evidence in the house, but the lack of anyone to greet him did not bother him. It seemed... unimportant._

_ Turning his attention back to the pictures which hung on the wall, Harry studied them intensely. The majority of them contained a smiling Hermione, some in company with one or both of her parents. It was clear that they were a close and loving family, the kind of which Harry had always ached to be a member. There were pictures of Hermione at what Harry suspected was her school, the nearby park Hermione had told him of, various pictures in different places of interest in Britain, and a few of places in distant lands._

_ In particular, Harry was drawn to a picture of her which appeared to have been taken from the top of a tall platform above a city. In it Hermione appeared to be the same girl he knew well—her hair was windswept, and she had a happy smile on her face, while the city below, though difficult to see due to the distance, teemed with life. It appeared as though the entire city started at a single point where a large arch stood, before extending out from that center point, almost like the hub of a wheel, with the surrounding streets as the attendant spokes. She appeared to be very happy in the picture—a young girl without a care in the world._

_ "Paris," a voice spoke from behind Harry._

_ He turned at the sound of the familiar tones, only to see his closest friend standing in front of him. She looked radiant, dressed in flowing white robes of a wizard style, her hair bound up and gathered behind here head in a simple bun. She was calm and composed and appeared to be as happy as he had ever seen her, though now that Harry thought of it, he did not know of any reason why she should not be._

_ A sudden flash in his mind's eye and an image of a darkened passageway, of holding something in his arms filled Harry's mind, only to disappear in an instant. It was unimportant, so Harry allowed the image to dissipate without complaint, instead preferring to focus on the person of his closest friend._

_ While he had been preoccupied, Hermione had seated herself on the nearby sofa. "We went to Paris the summer after our third year." Hermione paused and smiled. "I remember wishing that you could have come with us. You would have loved Paris."_

_ "I would have liked that," Harry said quietly, knowing he did not need to say anything more—they were so in tune, knew each other so well that she would know exactly what he wanted to convey, whether he voiced it verbally or kept silent._

_ "I know," was Hermione's simple reply. She then patted the seat on the sofa beside her and beckoned for him to join her. "Come. We need to talk."_

_ Obediently, Harry sat by her side, gazing at her with expectation. Hermione just smiled at him and turned to look forward. They were silent for some time, the silence a comfortable one between two longstanding friends, who both knew that they did not need to turn to meaningless platitudes in order to feel comfortable with one another._

_"Harry," Hermione finally said, "you know I would do anything for you, right?"_

_ Smiling, Harry nodded. "As I would do anything for you."_

_ "I know," she said again. The smile faded from her face. "But Harry, you know there comes a point when you have to let go, right?"_

_ Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"_

_ Reaching out, Hermione took his near hand in between her own. "There are some things which cannot be changed, nor can they be prevented. Life is so fragile—you never know when your time will come. You never know when the time will arrive for one of your loved ones to leave you."_

_ That last was said in a voice which was almost inaudible. Harry turned to face her fully and brought his other hand to clutch hers between his own. To Harry it symbolized the bond between them—they held on to each other with all the strength they both possessed._

_ "Hermione, what are you saying?" Harry asked, as he once again saw a brief vision of holding her in his arms, refusing to let her go burning through his mind._

_ "I want you to promise me that if necessary you will let me go, Harry."_

_ "But..." Harry stammered, but he could not continue. The thought of living without Hermione was painful—an almost physical ache deep within his heart. It was something which could not be considered, even for an instant._

_ "You must promise me, Harry," Hermione insisted. "You will not be alone. You have Ron, and Neville, and all of our other friends. And you will have Fleur. She loves you, Harry, and I expect you love her too. You must tell her."_

_ "But Hermione," Harry said desperately, "I can't continue on without you!"_

_ "Yes you can, Harry," Hermione replied with a smile of affection. "You can and you will. The pain of losing a loved one may seem like it will never go away, but with time it will dull and you will find the strength to go on. Besides, the Harry I know is far too noble and good to leave the world to Voldemort's depredations._

_ "Promise me, Harry," she insisted, sounding further away._

_ Feeling her slipping from his grasp, Harry flailed, reaching out for her, desperately trying to prevent her from leaving him. But the more he struggled, the more insubstantial she became. And in his ears, her plea kept sounding._

_ "Promise me, Harry. Promise._

_ "Promise."_

_ Harry._

* * *

"Harry!"

"Harry, wake up!"

Harry's eyes fluttered open and he found himself once again within the dim confines of the tunnel to Hogsmeade. For an instant he was confused, wondering how he had come to be in such a place. And then it all came back.

"Hermione!" Harry cried as he sat bolt upright, before collapsing once again to the floor as his head throbbed with pain. His strength was clearly not the equal of his determination to see Hermione safely recovered, though he might bitterly curse that fact.

"Easy, Harry," Dumbledore said with concern. Harry could barely make out the motions of the Headmaster waving his wand over his head through lidded eyes. He was unwilling to open them any further, as even that slight bit of light in the tunnel brought even more excruciating waves of pain to his abused head.

"But Hermione," he insisted weakly.

"It's okay, Harry," Fleur's voice reached him, and he realized at once that he was cradled in front of her, and her arms were clasped around his torso. "You saved her. Hermione will be fine because of you."

"She's well?" he asked, craning his neck around to see Fleur, only to experience a fresh wave of pain.

"She is, and you will see her as soon as Madam Pomfrey is finished examining her."

With that confirmation, a relieved Harry slumped down into Fleur's arms, and he allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness. Hermione would be well.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Again thanks to everyone for your continued interest. I really appreciate those who read and those who take the time to leave a comment.

2. So there you go. Hermione has made it and Harry has once again saved her. I hope everyone is grateful for the fact that I posted again after only one week instead of two!

3. There were a number of reviews after the last chapter, which essentially questioned why I would bother writing this if I never had any intention of killing Hermione. Think of it people—HP is all about a fight against an implacable foe. Should I shield everyone's favorite characters from such events because "there's no point?" I went this way for some specific reasons, none of which I will reveal now, and I do indeed believe there is a point. Let's face it—magic, fantastic creatures, and evil Dark Lords are not exactly believable in the real world, but at least _some_ of the events have to be plausible, and I certainly think it's believable that Malfoy would try something with Hermione, and have Harry do his damnedest to save her.

4. The next question then might be: why not Fleur instead of Hermione? Well, besides the fact that I thought the contempt factor would be much higher for Malfoy with Hermione than Fleur (familiarity breeding contempt after all), this also dovetails quite nicely into one of the main differences I see in Harry's relationship with Hermione as opposed to his relationship with Fleur. Harry will make mention of this in a chapter in the not too distant future.


	51. Chapter 50 – To Triumph Over Evil

**Previously: **Harry, desperate to save Hermione, reaches out and grasps hold of her with his magic. Dumbledore arrives at the scene, then leaves to bring Snape to counter Malfoy's curse. Harry's friends follow him and find them in the tunnel. Neville and Ron watch over Malfoy while Fleur watches Harry with Hermione and Luna goes to get Madam Pomfrey. When Severus arrives he performs the counter curse, and Madam Pomfrey quickly brings Hermione back from the brink. Harry, still trying to help Hermione, sees a vision in which Hermione tells him he must let her go if necessary.

* * *

**Chapter 50 – To Triumph Over Evil  
**

"So, I guess that's it then?"

"Remus, we've been through just about everything in the library which has even a shred of information about Horcruxes." Tonks sighed and sat back in the chair she occupied. "We've found out what we can. I'm sorry; there's nothing left here to discover."

Bone weary, Remus slumped back in his chair. Though the search for information pertaining to Horcruxes had ultimately yielded results, the results were not what Remus would have wished. When they had started searching the archives—with the help of several members of the society, due in large part to their unfamiliarity with the language—Remus had hoped that they would be able to complete their search and return to England within a few days. He had underestimated the amount of information available within the archives, and that did not even mention the time they had lost due to the full moon and Remus's change. It had been frustrating, but unfortunately nothing compared to the knowledge that the answer for which they searched simply did not exist.

It felt like he was failing Harry. He was well aware that Tonks, Sirius, Dumbledore—hell even Harry himself—would tell him that such feelings were in no way grounded in reality. And Remus himself certainly understood that there was nothing in the situation which could remotely be blamed on him. His heart, though, was having difficulty understanding what his head already knew.

"Remus, talk to me."

Opening his eyes, Remus took in the concerned countenance of his companion. She had been a tower of strength, pushing forward when he had faltered, maintaining their hope with her irrepressible good cheer and her natural ability to see the good in any situation. She was being much more blatant in her regard since they had arrived at the library, but Remus did not have the strength at present to warn her off; he needed a sympathetic shoulder far too much to spurn what she was offering.

"I just…" Remus paused to collect his thoughts. "I had hoped we would find an answer—something which would help us. Something which would help Harry. Not this… this…" Remus shook his head. "What we've found is not an answer. It's just more misery and hopelessness.

"I…" Remus swallowed and hung his head. "I just don't know what to do."

"We've found all we can find, Remus." Tonks' voice was full of compassion—she was well aware of what this meant to him and though she was no more than superficially acquainted with Harry, he could tell that she also felt the affects of their inability to find what they had required. "Unfortunately, Horcruxes are not what Dumbledore thought they were, and we can likely blame that on the society. They've been removing every reference they can find for centuries. Frankly, I'm surprised that any reference escaped them when they started this crusade of theirs."

Remus snorted. "And I would say that we should not underestimate mankind's ability to design ways to commit evil and make sure they can carry out that evil."

"I know." Tonks put her hands up in surrender. "But that fact that Voldemort was able to find a reference which he was actually able to use to recreate the ritual is no less than astonishing."

Sighing, Remus turned his thoughts away from his introspection. "So how many do you think he actually has then?"

"We'll never know until we try the spell on him," Tonks replied, making a face. "Dumbledore believes that he tried to make a magically significant number, but if he attempted to make his Horcruxes in secret—which seems almost certain—then my guess is that there are actually very few. Harry might be the only one."

And there was the trouble. They now had the means to discover how many Horcruxes Voldemort had made available to them, if they were able to get close enough to the man to cast it. They could also identify a Horcrux via a similar spell. But the information Dumbledore had given them on Horcruxes, though horrible, was nothing in comparison to what they had found. Simply put, the Horcrux was far more insidious and evil than even Dumbledore had suspected, and its effects were far reaching and, as far as they knew, permanent.

Even more troubling was the ability for the Horcrux creator to effectively make himself immortal, if he were prudent, and if he planned his deeds properly. Indeed, there was more than one instance in Egypt's history in which someone had managed to continue to live due to the creation of Horcruxes for several centuries. That Voldemort did not know exactly what he could do with a Horcrux was actually a blessing—he would have been a much more formidable and terrible foe had he known exactly what he was creating all those years ago. Indeed, Dumbledore might never have found out what the man was up to, and he could potentially have taken over the magical world through stealth, though his path to do so would have been much longer.

"So, to sum it up," Remus began sardonically, "we have a more terrible spell than even we had originally thought, if Voldemort knew about it he'd become almost unstoppable, and we have no way to remove it from my friend's son."

"Don't forget about the history."

"As if that will do any good," Remus muttered.

"We also have Dumbledore on our side," Tonks reminded him. "If anyone can figure this riddle out, it's Dumbledore. And remember, every magic has a counter."

"If we can find one," Remus replied doubtfully.

"True," Tonks replied in her ever-irrepressible manner. "But there's no sense in wallowing in our self-pity here, continuing to search for something which does not exist. We should return to Britain, give Dumbledore the information that we've discovered, and see if he's as great a wizard as we hope he is."

Remus smiled at her briefly, knowing that he words were a bit of a kick in the pants for him, something that he needed desperately. He was aware of his own disposition, and knew that the years since James's death and Sirius's imprisonment had emphasized his own natural inclination toward negativity. She was right; they had discovered more information than they had previously possessed. The situation was hopeless without it; it was merely difficult with it.

"Agreed," he finally said to her. "We should make arrangements with the society to leave as soon as possible."

Filled with a new sense of purpose, Remus and Tonks returned the materials they had been researching—which without magic Remus suspected would have crumbled to dust long before—to the capable hands of the custodian, and left the archives. Less than thirty minutes later, they were once again ushered into the presence of Mohammed, the head of the society, though this time they met with him in his office, and without the rest of the council.

As they entered the office, Mohammed peered up at them over his spectacles from whatever document he had been perusing. They had found a calm and reasonable man in the leader of the society. Whereas some jealously guarded their privacy and seemed to almost live completely separate—even from the magical world—Mohammed was very much a proponent of sharing their knowledge where necessary, with the proper safeguards employed, of course. Remus did not claim to understand the internal politics of the society, but to him it seemed the height of lunacy to wish for the society to take a purely insular stance and refuse to deal with the rest of the world. They _were_ in the business of safeguarding dangerous information in case it was needed to fight evil.

"Ah, Mr. Lupin, Miss Tonks," Mohammed greeted them, motioning to two chairs situated near the center of the floor. His office was more like that of a kindly university professor than the office of a businessman or politician; rather than having his desk in the middle of the room and having his guests seated on the other side like supplicants, his desk sat in one corner, and the area he directed them to contained a sofa, two comfortable armchairs, a small coffee table, and some refreshments preserved under a stasis charm.

"I understand that you've spent some time in the archives," he continued when they were seated. "Can I assume that you are ready to return to your home country?"

"We are, sir," Remus replied, before he belatedly amended it to, "Mohammed" upon the man's mock-disapproving expression. It was another thing Remus liked about him—he was very amiable and unpretentious, preferring to deal with others as an equal, rather than bludgeon them with his supposed rank or experience. He was actually much like Dumbledore in that respect.

"And I presume that you have not found what you were searching for?"

Remus shared a glance with his companion. "Unfortunately not. In fact, what we discovered was something far more sinister than I had ever expected."

"I know of what you speak." Confused, Remus leaned forward to ask him what he knew but Mohammed just waved him off. "Yes, I know I spoke rather obliquely when you first met us, but there are some things we do not speak of. This is one. For most of the council and our members, gathering and safeguarding the information is enough and I will admit that in the past several decades I have been content to let it be so myself.

"As a young man, however, I was a little more… impetuous, I believe is your word." Mohammed sat back in his chair with an introspective, far off look in his eyes and a self-deprecating smile on his lips. "I perhaps had a little more eagerness than sense as a younger man, and I undertook some study in some of the knowledge we possessed in order to better understand what we are fighting against. As our oaths prevent us from passing on that information on in an uncontrolled manner and we cannot use it ourselves, it is permitted."

Nodding, Remus motioned him to continue. Being under a version of those oaths now himself, he was well aware of their thoroughness and the consequences of attempting to break them.

"One such subject I studied was Horcruxes, as I was curious about the magic which resulted in the founding of our society. The knowledge has never been needed before now, but I have always been glad I had made the effort, as it illustrated to me very clearly just exactly what we fight.

"On the other hand, the evil required to create a Horcrux repelled and sickened me, and it was after I had learned what I could about Horcruxes that I ceased my overt studying attempts, though I will often still learn of any new magic which comes to our attention. I know nothing so heinous as the Horcrux, however, which is a distinct relief."

Pulling himself from his introspection, Mohammed turned to gaze at them frankly. "So yes, I understand what you face. You are here because of a young man you consider almost as a son, and yet you now understand the true nature of the Horcrux."

"That's something I don't exactly understand," Remus replied with a nod. "If Voldemort found information on how to create a Horcrux, why did he bungle it so badly?

Professor Dumbledore did not tell us what he knows of what Voldemort tried to make into Horcruxes, but I know that he tried to make several and that they were almost trophies to him."

"As you know from the archives, it was a mistake made by the original creator of the spell," Mohammed pointed out. "I can only assume that whatever Voldemort discovered, it was incomplete and left out the crucial details. For that we must all be thankful."

"That's for sure," Tonks muttered.

"Regardless, as I said, I know what you face, and the information you must impart." Mohammed gazed at them with some compassion. "Therefore, I have initiated an effort within our society. We have people with many talents counted among our members, and I have asked several of our spell crafters and arithmanic experts to delve into the ritual and attempt to create a counter."

"Thank you," Remus replied, moved by this man's attitude. "We certainly appreciate your efforts."

Mohammed waved him off. "It is nothing more than prudent. From what you tell me of young Mr. Potter, he seems important in the struggle against your dark lord and if a way can be devised to remove the Horcrux from him, it may benefit others if this ever happens again.

"Now, as to your immediate plans, I imagine you will wish to return to Britain immediately?"

"We do," Remus confirmed. "As this expedition has always been a secret, we will take a portkey to France and then travel by Muggle means to get back to Britain."

"Very well. I will have someone assist you in obtaining a portkey from our Ministry. We will contact you if we discover anything in our search for an answer." Mohammed paused and appeared to consider his words before he once again gazed squarely at Remus and his companion. "You have both shown yourselves to be competent and compassionate individuals. If you are ever interested in becoming agents for us in Britain, please send me word and I will see you initiated into the society."

Although he was intrigued by the offer, Remus knew that now was not the time for this discussion. He confined his response to a brief acknowledgement and an expression of gratitude for being considered worthy of the honor.

Mohammed just smiled. "We are always looking for good people, and you both would be welcome additions to our ranks. For that matter, once you extract the appropriate oaths from those with whom you will share this information, you may tell your Chief Warlock that if he ever tires of government, international intrigue, and the running of his school, that he would be most welcome as well."

With that, their meeting broke up and Mohammed sent them on their way. Following Tonks from the room, Remus turned his mind toward the coming journey and the news he must impart to Harry. It would be difficult and he wished it were otherwise, but perhaps a solution could still be found. One could always hope.

* * *

It was much later the afternoon after the attempted abduction and attack against Miss Granger when Albus made his way toward the potions master's office for a quick conference with the unpleasant man. Albus supposed he should be grateful—Severus's knowledge of the counter-curse had contributed to the saving of the girl's life. Of course, if he had never invented the curse with the intention to use it on his childhood nemesis James Potter, all the pain and anguish suffered that day could have been avoided. Or perhaps not—Albus now knew enough of Draco's intentions to know that if he had not known the Sectumsempra curse, he would undoubtedly have used something else and, potentially, something worse. It would not go well for Mr. Malfoy; that was a foregone conclusion.

Returning his thoughts to Severus, Albus decided that did not begrudge the man his feelings—his relationship with James Potter had been explosive almost from the day they had walked through the doors their first year. It had grown ever worse as James had begun to show interest in Lily, and ratcheted up to violent levels once James and Lily had actually become a couple. And James had never been an innocent in the affair. In fact, the boy had been an arrogant bully when he had arrived at Hogwarts. But James had grown and matured, gradually becoming the man he had, a man whom Albus had been proud to call a friend. Severus, unfortunately, had never been able to get past his hatred for his childhood nemesis. He was, at times, a child stuck in a man's body. In that, the contrast between them was great indeed.

When Albus arrived at the door to Severus's office, the potions master readily allowed him entrance. Severus was seated on a sofa in the corner of his office with a cup of tea, and he appeared to be as introspective as Albus had ever seen him. Perhaps this morning's events would remind him of the things which were important…

"Albus," Severus greeted as he walked in, though he did not stand or make any other gesture of greeting.

"Good afternoon, Severus."

The potions master paid him no mind, however. He sat on his sofa and sipped his tea and all the while, his eyes were unfocused, peering off into the distance. It was some time before the man spoke.

"It was somewhat… disconcerting to see my spell used on another person, Albus."

Albus watched the other man for some hint of what he was feeling. But other than his words, there was no other indication—Severus continued to sip his tea and peer distractedly at scenes only he could see. He hoped that Severus was feeling some remorse, but he had always been a difficult man to read, and even as a boy in school.

"Indeed it is," Albus finally responded. "But the more pressing question is where Draco learned such a spell."

Turning his head to face Albus, Severus's eyebrow rose. "If you are asking me if I taught it to Draco, then the question is no."

"Then how did he learn it?"

An indifferent shrug met his query. "The spell is… not unknown to the Dark Lord's forces. I suspect that Lucius taught it to him."

This time it was Albus's turn to raise his eyebrow. "Not unknown? I thought you jealously guarded the secret of your own person spells."

"I was observed using it during a raid near the end of the first war," Severus replied. "And I will note that by that time I was already working actively for you, and that I purposefully missed my target. I did not kill anyone with it."

"I never doubted it for a moment," Albus said. "You answered the questions I had for you at the time truthfully. I was merely surprised that you had consented to impart your own personal spells to others."

"I was not exactly given a choice," Severus said with a rueful grimace.

The man was silent after his words, but Albus had the impression that he was merely thinking of how to respond, rather than possessing any true hesitance over sharing what had occurred. But when Severus spoke yet again, his words, though vague, did illuminate his meaning a little further, though he still kept his emotions in check.

"As a Death Eater, I was… expected to share anything which would allow the Dark Lord's forces to be more effective. That particular curse is not only powerful, but also leaves a very vivid effect not only on the victim, but also leaves an impression on those who witness it. The Dark Lord commended me for my ingenuity."

This last was spoken with a measure of contempt, but whether it was directed at Voldemort or at Severus himself, Albus could not be certain. To a certain extent, Albus hoped that the man's tone was self-aimed—it was far past the time that Severus began to regret some of his past actions, or at least those which were not centered on what had happened to Lily Potter.

"Of course, most Death Eaters can't be bothered to use it." This time there was no question at whom his barb was directed. "To most of them the spell is too much effort. They much prefer the instant gratification of the killing curse or the Cruciatus."

Severus looked up, and for the first time during the interview, Albus could see that he had the potions master's full attention. "I assume that you have Draco incarcerated?"

"There was little else to be done," Albus replied. "The boy attempted to kidnap Miss Granger, intending to hand her over to Voldemort, and he attacked her with a dark curse, nearly ending her life. If he had had more time to consider it, I do not doubt he would have simply killed her with a killing curse, but he was flustered when Harry appeared so much more quickly than he had anticipated Even if the involvement of law enforcement was not required in this case, I cannot ignore what the boy is becoming."

Albus paused and looked Severus in the eye. "He has no remorse, whatsoever, Severus. He hates Miss Granger with an intensity that is almost frightening. Had he not acted now, I believe I would have been frightened for her and her entire family during the summer. He has his father's example to emulate, after all.

In fact, Draco's situation, while not identical, was somewhat reminiscent of a younger Severus Snape. Albus hoped that Severus understood that.

"I believe I have told you before where he was headed," Severus replied, this time aiming his derision at the boy under discussion. "He's had his head filled with his father's ideals all his life, and you are well aware of what Lucius stood for. I dare say that you are entirely correct in your speculations—he would have counted it an honor to mimic his father's actions on Miss Granger's entire family personally."

Albus grimaced—he was not unaware of Mr. Malfoy's opinions on the matter. He had just spent some time with the boy and his surface Legilimency made it absolutely clear that there was very little hope of redeeming him. It was a pity for one who was still at such a young age.

"And what about the rest of Draco's friends?" Severus asked.

"They knew nothing of what he planned," Albus replied.

"But surely they knew _something_," Severus countered.

"Of course. But he refused to share anything with them."

"So will you send them home?"

Albus sighed. This was the difficulty. They obviously supported Mr. Malfoy, not to mention Voldemort's aims, but they themselves had not actually done anything wrong themselves. They could not even be said to have been accessories to Malfoy's crimes, as they boy had shared nothing with them but the normal platitudes of how he had been chosen to act by the Dark Lord. It was difficult to determine the best thing to do, not to mention the fairest course of action.

"Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle will need to be expelled," Albus said after a moment. "Their confrontation with Harry in the hallways when he was rushing to save Miss Granger is another case of spellfire in the hallway, even though they did not know what was happening at the time. This time they've gone beyond the point of no return.

"As for the rest… Miss Parkinson is completely devoted to Mr. Malfoy, as you well know, but though she has always supported him, she has never done anything herself. Miss Bulstrode is a lukewarm supporter at best, and Mr. Nott's position is much the same as Miss Parkinson's. And as for the older students, well they generally tend to behave in a more Slytherin manner, the recent confrontation in the Slytherin common room aside. I have nothing to pin on any of them, though at the very least their parents are Voldemort's supporters. At present, I am considering leaving them with a very stern warning of the consequences of stepping out of line again, and allowing them to stay."

"You will need to be very watchful if they _do_ stay, Albus," Severus commented. "They will take any chance at revenge that presents itself. Especially Nott and Parkinson."

Inclining his head, Albus answered, "I fear you are correct." At that, Albus stood. "Please keep an eye on your house, Severus. Voldemort will make his move very soon and you and I both know that Hogwarts is a very tempting target. We must be vigilant."

Severus inclined his head, but he did not say anything further. By the time Albus had let himself out of the office, Severus was once again immersed in his contemplations. Hopefully, he would begin to undertake the self evaluation which Albus had been afraid would never occur. The man could not become much worse, after all.

* * *

A sensation of warmth spread across Harry's face and, feeling lethargic, he basked in the feeling, snuggling down into his pillow, intent on drifting off once again into the blessed oblivion of sleep. And that was when he remembered.

"Hermione!" he cried as he shot straight up in bed, before sinking back down again with his head pounding in protest.

"It's all right, Harry," a voice said from his side.

With some effort, Harry opened his eyes to see Fleur's visage, etched with concern. The blue depths of her eyes captured his own as she watched him.

"Fleur!" he croaked, as he reached out and enveloped her in a fierce embrace. "Where is Hermione?"

"Right here," Hermione's voice said from behind his betrothed.

Harry lifted his eyes and he saw the person of his best friend sitting in the bed next to his. Fleur had moved a chair and had situated it between their beds, though she was now perched on the edge of his bed, and had her arm draped around him.

"Fleur and I were wondering when you would wake up," Hermione continued with a large smile. "But then again, you've always been a bit of a sleepyhead in the morning."

Heedless of the pain in his head, his unsteadiness, or anything else but the need to confirm for himself that she was well, Harry threw off the blankets and stepped off the bed, crossing to Hermione—or perhaps it was more correct to say the he lurched and staggered across the intervening space to Hermione's bed. In the end, however, the effect was the same and he was able to reach her.

He moved across the edge of her bed and engulfed her in his arms, sobbing with relief that she appeared to be well. "I though I had lost you," he managed to gasp out between his sobs.

"I am well, Harry," Hermione assured him, while returning his embrace with a fierce one of her own. "Thanks to you. You seem to be making it a habit to rescue one particular damsel in distress."

Burying his head in her hair, Harry allowed himself to relax and the terror of the day to wash from his body, leaving nothing but contentment at the safety and security of the arms of his beloved. Or more appropriately, one of his beloveds.

At the thought of Fleur, Harry shifted and lifted his head, catching sight of the familiar blond vision of his betrothed, drinking in the sight of her perfect features and flawless skin. She was watching them as they embraced on Hermione's bed, and Harry saw that for once her countenance was closed. He could make out nothing of her thoughts from the expression on her face.

In mute invitation, Harry reached out to her, opening his arm for her to join he and Hermione on the bed and, after the slightest of hesitation, she acquiesced, smoothly slipping into the space underneath his arm. At that moment, all seemed right in the world. They were both safe and they were here by his side, pressed closely to him. Nothing could be better.

At length, Harry pulled back and examined both of the girls. Fleur appeared to be the picture of health and vitality, much as she always had. Hermione, understandably, was still wan and tired-looking, though the ghostly pale aspect of that morning was gone in favor of a healthier color. When she moved, she appeared to be largely free of pain, though Harry did detect a grimace or two. She seemed to be well on the way to recovery, though Harry was not about to let that assumption stand without confirmation directly from her mouth.

"How are you really, Hermione?" he asked, and then he grinned at her. "You can't get away with my typical 'I'm fine' answer you know."

Hermione smiled at him and then answered truthfully, "I _am_ well, Harry. I do still ache a little and Madam Pomfrey has me on a regimen of potions for the next week, but I feel quite well considering what happened only this morning."

"It's amazing what magic can do," Fleur interjected quietly. "It can harm in the most devastating ways, but it can also heal with amazing quickness."

"Thank goodness!" Harry exclaimed. But there was little mirth in any of them. The events of the morning were far too raw in each of them for any levity. They quietly spoke amongst themselves for some time, relishing in the feeling of comfort and contentment, not thinking about the storm which was undoubtedly brewing over them all. It was not long before they were all rather forcefully reminded by their bodies that they had not eaten anything since that morning—and Hermione since the night before—and they were interrupted by the Headmaster after Harry's stomach decried him loudly for neglecting to appease it.

"I see you are all on the road to recovery," Dumbledore said after he had greeted them, "and that your appetites appear to have returned. I will arrange for the house-elves to bring you all some dinner so that you may fortify yourselves."

"What's happened with Malfoy, sir?" Harry asked, turning his attention from the idyllic interlude he had just experienced, to the reason they had spent the entire day in the hospital wing.

"It would be better if you were all informed later, as you will have visitors," Dumbledore replied. "For now, please eat your dinner. It is best to cover weighty subjects on a full stomach, is it not?"

Harry acquiesced, though not with some impatience, not to mention a look at the Headmaster which demanded an answer. Dumbledore undoubtedly saw it, and after thinking on the matter for a few moments, Harry was thankful for his forbearance. He was a respected wizard in a position of much authority, after all, and Harry was well aware of the fact that his behavior could be described as slightly petulant.

For the better part of the next hour, the three sat in the hospital wing eating their dinner and basking in the presence of the others, all thoughts of future days with the potential to be equally stressful forgotten in their desire to simply enjoy being together. It was unfortunate that such a happy circumstance must ultimately end.

They had finished their meals and had settled back into their positions—Hermione leaning against the headboard of her bed, Harry sitting a little further down, while Fleur occupied the chair now pulled close—when the first indication of change came over them, in the noise which appeared to be making its way toward the door. When the door burst open, and the Headmaster stepped in, followed by a rather large group of people. The largest surprise, however, was when Hermione's parents entered, and immediately made their way toward their daughter's bed, each with concern and worry etched upon their features.

"Hermione!" Elizabeth Granger sobbed as she enveloped her daughter in a fierce embrace. Harry moved off the bed to give Hermione's parents a chance to fuss over their daughter, and he looked at Dumbledore, as the Headmaster was watching the reunion with compassion. All at once Harry understood—would this attack be enough to convince the Grangers to pull their daughter from Hogwarts?

Suddenly anxious himself, Harry eased himself away from the bed and approached the Headmaster. "Sir, why are the Grangers here?" he asked quietly, taking care that his words would not be overheard by his best friend's parents.

"I decided that I had no choice but to inform them of what happened," Dumbledore replied, his voice equally quiet.

"But they weren't informed of all the other things that have happened, right?" Harry asked. At Dumbledore's tight nod, Harry said, "What if they decide to pull Hermione out of Hogwarts?"

"I hope we can convince them of the folly of that course," the Headmaster replied. "But the situation was different this time. With the troll it was a creature which blindly made its way into the castle—Miss Granger was not the focus of that attack, though she was in danger. It was the same with the basilisk. In this instance, however, she was the specific target of someone who meant her harm. Though the law does not require me to inform them, due to their status, I could not in good conscience keep this from them. To be honest, looking back on it now, I believe I should not have kept any of those previous incidents from them either."

It did not take any great insight to divine the underlying message behind Dumbledore's words—he was not required to notify them because they were Muggles. The Headmaster, however, had revealed his own sympathies by contacting them and bringing them here, and though he had possibly been remiss in not informing them the other times their daughter had faced danger, it was quite a bit more than he was required to do.

"The laws aren't fair, Harry," Sirius said as he approached from behind. "You worry about kicking Voldy's arse—once he's gone and you've taken your place in the Wizengamot, we can work to change those laws."

Though hardly mollified, Harry agreed with a tight nod. Sirius clapped him on the shoulder in commiseration, while Jean-Sebastian—who had arrived with Apolline to round out the party—nodded his approval. No doubt they had also been subjected to the same sort of prejudice themselves because of Apolline's heritage, though France did seem to be a slightly more tolerant society. Or at least it appeared to be that way for Veela.

When Hermione's parents had assured themselves of their daughter's wellbeing, their attention turned back toward the rest of the room. Their faces were set in displeased, though even lines, and their words were certainly not what Harry was hoping to hear.

"Headmaster, what the hell is happening at this school?" Mr. Granger ground out. The normally mild-mannered man was clearly suppressing his outrage over the knowledge that Hermione had been attacked in a place where she was supposed to be safe.

"Don't blame it on Headmaster Dumbledore—" Hermione began, but she was immediately overruled.

"Ultimately, _I am responsible_ for the safety of the students in this school, Miss Granger," he said in his placid voice. "I thank you for your sentiments, but you do not need to protect me."

He turned a shrewd eye on Hermione's parents. "Mr. Granger, how much has Hermione told you of what is occurring in the magical world at the present?"

William Granger turned to look at Hermione. "You're talking about the Voldemort chap, aren't you? Something about him returning after a long absence?"

"The situation is quite a bit more complicated than that, but in essence, that is correct. Perhaps we have all been remiss in not informing you before now—I believe it is now time that you were aware of the exact situation which exists now in the world of which your daughter is a member."

With that, Dumbledore launched into the description of what was happening in their world. He touched on everything, including what had happened when Harry was a child, the growing suspicion that Voldemort was trying to return, the escapades the two friends, along with Ron Weasley, had experienced, and finally the ultimate return of Voldemort the previous year. Harry did notice that he did not go into great detail in certain subjects, specifically troll incident from first year, and the basilisk from their second. Harry suspected it was because he was not certain of how much Hermione had imparted to her parents and he did not wish to upset them further or turn their anger on her—those were the two times, along with the Dementors, in which Hermione's life had been in the most danger, and though Harry had never truly considered it before, he now suspected that Hermione had never been completely open with her parents; if she had, it was very likely that they would have pulled her out of Hogwarts long before.

When the Headmaster finished his recitation, the room fell into silence for several moments while the Grangers digested what they had just been told. At length, Mr. Granger turned a speculative eye on Harry.

"It seems you've led a charmed life, Harry," he said, part of his good humor at least restored. "It's a rather fantastical story, you have to admit, especially this bit about surviving a spell no one else has managed to, and witnessing someone come back to life."

"Yes sir," said Harry, somewhat surprised that he seemed to taking it all so well. "But it's true."

"It's been a while since I've attended church, but I'm pretty certain the Bible would say that your story is impossible."

"I don't know much about the Bible, sir," Harry replied. "But I can tell you that Voldemort is back, no matter what happened to him when I was a baby."

Mr. Granger sighed and shared a glance with his wife, though it was Mrs. Granger who responded. "We aren't questioning your story and we're not going to suddenly start throwing scriptures at you, Harry. It's just… it's quite a bit to take in."

She turned and looked at Hermione. "I suppose it would not do any good to suggest that you leave school and this conflict behind?"

At Hermione's vigorous denial, the Granger's once again looked at each other, seemingly having a conversation without words in the manner of a devoted couple who were very familiar with one another. "Somehow, I didn't think so," Mr. Granger muttered.

"It would not be advisable in any case," Dumbledore interjected.

Mr. Granger peered at the headmaster. "Just for the sake of argument, humor me please. Why isn't it advisable?"

"The magical world is at war, Mr. Granger. Despite what has occurred today, your daughter is safest while she is here. If she were to return home, the Death Eaters would eventually learn her location—if they haven't already—and as a close friend of Mr. Potter's, she would become even more of a target. They would learn quickly that she has left school, I assure you."

"But what about when may parents return home?" Hermione asked, a hint of fear entering her voice. "Won't the Death Eaters target them because of me?"

"That is very likely, Miss Granger," was Dumbledore's sober reply. "I think it would be prudent to provide your parents with emergency portkeys which would take them to a safe house in case of an attack."

"Would they work for non magicals?" Harry asked curiously.

"They certainly would," Dumbledore replied affably. "The caster provides the initial magic. Out in a Muggle area the magic would slowly bleed away, eventually leaving the item inert, but it would take several months before it would be rendered unusable."

Harry filed that information away—it might become important at some later date.

"That would be appreciated, Headmaster," William Granger replied.

"I'm surprised you're taking this so well," Hermione told her parents quietly.

Elizabeth Granger leaned over and put an arm around her daughter. "I won't lie to you, Hermione. Every instinct tells me that we should leave this place and run far away. But I suppose that wouldn't really resolve anything."

"And you would end up regretting us," William added. He turned to Harry, and a solemn expression came over his face. "You will protect her, won't you Harry?"

"With my life," Harry replied fervently.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," William replied.

"Yes, let us all hope," Dumbledore murmured. He continued at once, changing the subject to the one Harry had been impatiently awaiting. "Now, as for the particulars of the actions of Mr. Malfoy, I can tell you that it appears that he was instructed to attempt to kidnap either Miss Granger, or Miss Delacour. It doesn't seem to have mattered to Voldemort which one he targeted."

"Slimy git," Harry murmured under his breath, and he hugged Fleur to him as a gesture of support. It could very easily have been his betrothed as the other girl he loved.

"How did he manage it?" William asked,

Harry shook his head disgustedly and snorted. "He managed it because we were too convinced of our own superiority and his lack of anything resembling intelligence.

Puzzled, Elizabeth asked, "What do you mean?"

"I allowed Hermione to go off by her own when I saw Malfoy and his friends all in the Great Hall," Harry explained with a shake of his head. "It never occurred that he would be sneaky enough to use polyjuice against us. I didn't think the git had it in him."

"Polyjuice?" William asked. "I'm sorry—I don't understand."

"Perhaps I should explain," Dumbledore interrupted, "since I am privy to exactly what his plan was, having questioned him. It was simple in execution, relying heavily on the fact that you would discount him as a threat if you could see him in front of you when you entered the Great Hall. The Hufflepuff who told Miss Granger to meet with Professor McGonagall was, of course, put under the Imperius curse.

"Then, he also used the Imperius curse on a second year Slytherin boy, instructing the boy to impersonate him in the Great Hall using polyjuice, and return to the Slytherin dormitories before the hour life of the potion had been exhausted.

"Mr. Granger, polyjuice is a potion which allows a person to take on the appearance of another person—all it requires is a single hair, added to the potion. Anyone taking that potion _becomes_ that person for all intents and purposes, for the space of an hour. Of course they retain their own thoughts, but physically, they are the new person. The other piece of this—the Imperius curse—is a curse which, when cast, allows another to take full control of another and force them to obey their commands."

"Wonderful tools you have in your world," Elizabeth muttered sarcastically.

"What happens if a person drinks a… Polyjuice I believe you said?" At Dumbledore's nod, William continued, "What happens if they drink their own potion?"

Dumbledore chuckled, while the rest of the magicals in the room glanced at each other curiously. "I believe that most wizards would not even think to ask that question, Mr. Granger—we tend to be a rather… incurious people.

"I do not actually know the answer, and I do not know if it has ever been tested. I suspect that nothing would happen, as there is nothing to change. There is the possibility of a bad magical reaction, but to be honest, I am unsure, even with all my years as a potioneer and alchemist. Suffice it to say that Mr. Malfoy forced a younger boy to impersonate him, so that he would be free to carry out his deeds."

"That way he would have an alibi when Hermione's disappearance was discovered," said Fleur.

"Not to mention plenty of witnesses who would testify that he had been at breakfast before returning to his dormitory," Dumbledore. "He did not take into account the possibility that someone would inform Harry that Professor McGonagall was not in her office. He may have felt the chance was small or that it was an acceptable risk."

"Even if someone had questioned, like Luna did, he still would have gotten away with it if we hadn't had the map," Harry added quietly. He glanced at Sirius, who grinned at him and shot him a thumbs up.

"Map?" Elizabeth asked curiously.

Harry nodded. "When my father and his friends," he waved a hand at Sirius, "attended school here they created a map which shows the location of everyone on it. When we found out we'd been tricked, I looked for Hermione on the map. That's how I was able to get to her in time."

Elizabeth Granger shook her head. "This world of yours is so incongruous at times. You have amazing tools which allow you to locate a person quickly, travel far faster than anything non-magical, and save a person from near death. But you also have ways to torture and kill far more effectively. I'm sometimes unable to decide whether magic is a good thing or not."

Nodding sagely, Albus said, "Very true, Mrs. Granger. But you could say that of science as well. On the non-magical side of the fence, you have not only managed to land people on the moon, but you have also devised ways to kill thousands of people almost instantly, neither of which magic could ever hope to accomplish. There is good and bad in both worlds, unfortunately, and it is up to those of us who possess the proper moral compass to make certain that these tools are not misused, and that the perpetrator is punished when he does use them."

"What is the saying?" Hermione spoke up. "'The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.'"

"Very apropos," Dumbledore said with a nod of approval. "We should all remember that, for the times ahead will be harder before they become easier."

Momentary silence descended upon the room as the import of the exchange was digested. Harry knew that Draco's actions were nothing more than a precursor to what was truly coming. They had all best be vigilant

"Do we know why he decided on Hermione?" William asked, only to be swatted by his wife. He turned a slightly red face to Fleur and contritely said, "I apologize for how that sounded, Fleur. I wasn't suggesting it would be better had he chosen you."

Fleur just brushed his words off. "I take no offense, Mr. Granger."

"It is a valid question," Sirius broke in.

"He has become more and more fixed on Hermione all year," Harry stated. "He's hated Hermione for much longer than Fleur." Harry grinned at Hermione. "Besides, he may have thought Hermione was the greater threat. He knows first hand that she's got a great right hook."

There were a few snickers in response to Harry's irreverent statement, and even more when Hermione blushed and shot Harry a glare which promised retribution.

"I believe that is a story I have not yet heard," Dumbledore said with an amused smile.

"He said that they would get Fleur later," Hermione interjected in a quiet voice, sobering them all.

"I believe there have been other incidents throughout the school year which have increased his antipathy toward Miss Granger," Dumbledore broke into the silence. And I fear that I may have inadvertently increased his hostility when I paired you together in Defense class last December. For that, I apologize."

"I hardly think he needed any more reason than his own prejudices, Headmaster," Jean-Sebastian interrupted, and his sentiments were echoed by the Grangers and everyone else in the room. Harry knew that Jean-Sebastian was right—perhaps that incident had increased his hatred, but Malfoy had hated Hermione since their first year. It was equally because she had long been his closest friend that determined Malfoy's actions, Harry was certain. Passing the blame around would be pointless, however, so he kept his opinion to himself.

"Regardless, magical law enforcement has been called in deal with the situation, and they have conducted the initial interrogation and investigation of the incident this afternoon. Tomorrow morning, Mr. Malfoy will be transferred to the Ministry and will undergo an interrogation under the influence of Veritaserum."

Mr. and Mrs. Granger appeared perplexed. "What is Veritaserum?"

"It is a powerful truth serum," Dumbledore explained. "One under its influence cannot lie. The specifics of Mr. Malfoy's actions will be determined tomorrow, and then he will likely face charges for kidnapping and attempted murder. Given what his father testified only a few days ago, I doubt the Wizengamot will be persuaded to be anything other than extremely harsh when it comes to his crimes. I dare say we shall mot see Mr. Malfoy at Hogwarts again."

"And what of his accomplices?" William asked.

"He has plenty of supporters, but in this instance, he had no accomplices. He was very careful to keep the specifics of his plan completely to himself."

"But… But Crabbe and Goyle, sir!" Harry sputtered.

"Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle were acting completely separate from Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore corrected gently. "I have questioned them both and confirmed that they merely used an opportunity which presented itself to try to obtain revenge for their fathers' executions."

Though Dumbledore was not explicit, Harry knew that he was sure of his information because he had utilized Legilimency in the matter. There was no doubt that Crabbe and Goyle, stupid as they were, had little to no skill in Occlumency. As such, Harry doubted that Dumbledore had even had to utilize active Legilimency—a passive reading of surface thoughts almost certainly would have been enough.

"However, even though I confirmed that neither was aware of Mr. Malfoy's plan, they still attacked you in the halls. As I had specifically warned against the consequences of such behavior, I expelled them—their mothers arrived earlier this afternoon and escorted them home."

"Good riddance," said Harry, a sentiment which was echoed fervently by both Fleur and Hermione.

"As for the rest of Mr. Malfoy's clique, I cannot do anything further against them at this time. We shall need to be vigilant in watching Mr. Nott, Miss Parkinson, and Miss Bulstrode, in addition to some of the older members of Slytherin house, and a few in other houses, whose views are suspect.

"Also, Harry," Dumbledore continued, while turning to Harry, "I would like to have the use of this wondrous map of which you spoke earlier. The passages are close enough to the surface that they are protected by the school's wards, which is why Mr. Malfoy could not simply portkey away once he had entered the passage. But I would like to block them off so that they cannot be utilized in a similar manner in the future."

"I'm not sure what happened to it," Harry said with some chagrin. "I left it on the table when I went to chase after Malfoy this morning."

"The twins have it," Fleur spoke up. "They didn't want anyone else to get their hands on it."

The room descended into silence for the next several moments, and Harry, ensconced as he was into Fleur's side, was content to let it be so. The events of the morning had been particularly draining, and Harry just wanted to forget it all for a while. He was thus, unprepared for Fleur's next question.

"Headmaster," she began hesitantly, "I was wondering about something." At Dumbledore's nod, Fleur continued. "What happened this morning between Harry and Hermione? I mean… she had lost so much blood. When we arrived, I was surprised that she was still alive."

At Fleur's words, Harry's mind was suddenly filled with the recollection of what had occurred that morning, and specifically what he had experienced while in his trance and trying to save Hermione. He gasped and said, "I saw her!"

Curious looks were directed at him and he colored a little at the attention. Dumbledore in particular was gazing at Harry in a particularly assessing manner. "What do you mean, Harry?"

"When I was… well, doing whatever I was doing, I saw Hermione. We spoke."

Hermione obviously did not remember the experience, as her expression was as puzzled as that of anyone else.

"Perhaps you should explain exactly what happened, Harry," Dumbledore prompted.

Slowly, Harry did just that, concentrating first on what it felt like to reach out with his magic and latch on to Hermione, then the strain he felt as he continued to hold on to her. He then went into his vision and his conversation with Hermione, what he was feeling, and how Hermione had told him to let her go if necessary. When he had finished his recitation, he noted that there was not a dry eye in the room. Hermione especially was gazing at him as though her heart was in her eyes. Never had he felt more certain of his love for her and her reciprocating feelings.

"That is a remarkable story, Harry," Dumbledore replied after a moment. "And one which does clarify a few things, though not everything. In our discussions we have touched on the subject of souls before. Do you remember what we discussed?"

Harry nodded, understanding that of everyone in the room, the Grangers were not privy to the secret of Horcruxes, and it was not prudent for them to learn. Beyond that, Harry was not certain of what their reaction would be, and he did not wish to invite the renewed possibility of them removing Hermione from his presence for good.

"Excellent," Dumbledore replied with a nod of approval. "For those who were not privy to those discussions," Dumbledore nodded at the Grangers, "I will briefly explain. The various Muggle religions have speculated on the existence of the soul, but the magical world has proven its existence without any doubt. It is still imperfectly understood, but suffice it to say that the soul does exist, and there is a branch of magic which deals with all things of a spiritual nature. This branch is largely useless except for certain academic interests, but it does exist.

"In reaching out to Miss Granger's magic, you provided the power for her bodily functions to continue operating after her body was not capable of continuing to function on its own. In short, you reached out with your magic, and in doing so, initiated a communion on a high and spiritual level with Miss Granger. In doing so, you kept her alive."

Whatever Harry had been expecting, this certainly was not it. Unfortunately Dumbledore's explanation raised far more questions than provided answers, and he was not certain that the answers existed.

"So, are you saying that I… bonded with her or something?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore laughed quietly at his question and shook his head. "No, Harry, you did not create a bond. Such bonds are wonderful for poets and novelists, and excessively romantic, but in the real and practical world, they do not exist. Your soul is your soul; Miss Granger's soul is her soul. The only bonds that we create are the bonds of friendship and love, and I dare say that those bonds are more powerful than anything else in this world.

"You shared a great part of yourself with her, and she responded, whether she was aware of it or not, by latching on to you, allowing the connection to occur. Please understand, Harry, that this communion is a very rare and beautiful thing, exquisite and almost certain to draw you closer to one another. But it does not provide any mystic powers, such as the ability to converse via telepathy, knowledge of one another's thoughts, or a mystical sharing of souls."

Here Dumbledore turned a stern eye on Harry and his voice became very serious. "I should also warn you, if you have not already determined this yourself, that what you did is very draining and very dangerous. With your great power you were able to hold her for far longer than I would have expected—I would warn against trying something like this lightly."

Harry nodded—he had figured that out himself. Given the way he had felt when his connection with Hermione had been broken, he was in no hurry to try something like that again any time soon.

"But what of what I saw?" Harry asked. "Did I dream it?"

"I believe it was real, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "Remember that you were in close proximity to one another, on a physical and a more spiritual level. Though Miss Granger does not remember it, on some level she must have understood the danger you were putting yourself in and acted accordingly to try to protect you." Dumbledore smiled at them both. "Your relationship is longstanding and is as profound as any I have ever seen, and it is not surprising that you are able to communicate in such a manner."

Harry blushed, shooting a sidelong glance at Hermione, who had matched his shade perfectly. To hide his embarrassment, he burrowed into Fleur's side a little more, noting her tightened embrace in response. He avoided any more contact with Hermione, though—he understood instinctually that she was not ready to have their relationship exposed to her parents; that would have to wait for another less emotional time.

The discussion broke up soon after that. Dumbledore left immediately in the company of Sirius to retrieve the map and take care of the passages, while the Delacours stayed for a few moments to have a few words with Fleur, before they too departed. The only ones who stayed longer were the Grangers, who were informed by the headmaster that he would see that they were returned to their home once he had finished his task, thereby allowing them to visit with their daughter and ensure for themselves that Hermione was well.

Left somewhat at loose ends and unwilling to interrupt the small family's time together, Harry and Fleur moved back to Harry's bed and began to talk quietly together. Of course, they we interrupted by the inevitable—and welcome—visited by their close friends, who came to see for themselves that they were well.

As they sat around as a group, Harry allowed his mind to wander. Hermione was now safe—or as safe as she could be with Voldemort still at large—and Fleur was by his side as she had been since the surprising announcement of the previous summer.

But though Harry knew that both girls would castigate him if they knew his thoughts, he could not help but think of how he could keep them safe in the coming struggle. It had already been shown without any doubt that it was very dangerous to be close to Harry Potter right now and Harry did not know what he would do if anything happened to them, and he was not close by to thwart the Malfoys of the world. Whatever happened, Harry was determined that they should be kept safe. He would go to hell and back before he allowed either one to be harmed again.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Continued thanks to everyone who is still following this work as the chapters and word count mounts. By my count, we're at almost 470K words, heading toward approximately 735K.

2. Writing continues to be very quick. As of the posting of this chapter, I am six chapters ahead in the writing. Based on how many chapters are left, the magic number is ten—if I can get there, I'll move to weekly posting. I'm getting to the point where I really need to have this completed...

3. My apologies for continuing to tease you about Horcruxes—well, I'm not sorry actually!—but we're getting close to where it will all be explained. I've alluded to it a number of times, but I've changed them up significantly from canon, and in ways that I hope will make sense. The big reveal (or at least part of it) is coming in chapter 56. So that means there are a few other things which will happen before then. Hold onto your hats, because things are about to get much hairier.

4. For those that asked, you now know how Malfoy learned the spell. Snape did not teach it to him.

5. I again found myself walking a bit of a tightrope caused by nonsensical canon in this chapter for a couple of reasons. First, why were Hermione's parents never told of the things that happened to her in school? Second, can you charge someone who _would have_ done something wrong, but didn't have the opportunity? And why were Malfoy and his goons never disciplined in canon? I hope I've found a happy medium in both instances, though I'm pretty sure some readers will not like how I did it.

6. And finally, a partial explanation on what happened between Harry and Hermione at the end of the last chapter, though I was intentionally vague for some of it. And I thought I'd squash any hint of magical bonds in this fic right off the bat. I had originally toyed with the idea of creating one between them (and then subsequently creating one between Harry and Fleur through some other means), but I decided it wasn't really necessary and would seem forced. My take on souls in this story would not really have fit with the idea of a soul bond, anyway. So while I do like and read soul bond stories, they don't exist in this one.


	52. Chapter 51 – The Opening Sally

**Previously: **Remus and Tonks decide that it is time to return to England. Dumbledore speaks with Snape and confirms that Snape did not teach Malfoy the _Sectumsempra_ curse. Harry wakes up and finds out that Hermione is safe. They are joined in the hospital wing by some visitors, including Hermione's parents, and Dumbledore gives and explanation for what Harry did to keep Hermione alive.

* * *

**Chapter 51 – The Opening Sally**

The following morning, Harry and Hermione were released from the hospital early in the morning, Harry receiving the matron's expected direction to try to stay out of trouble for once while Hermione was admonished to continue taking her potions regimen for the next week, and to return immediately if she was feeling unwell. Harry merely grinned at the elderly matron, thanked her for her care and concern, and led Hermione from the hospital wing.

They walked down toward the Great Hall hand in hand, and as Hermione was apparently content to retain the comfortable silence between the two friends, Harry reflected upon the past day. A night of sleep and the fact that his best friend had emerged from the ordeal intact—though not unscathed—leant a certain perspective to the situation in Harry's mind. The actions of one little ferret were still repugnant, and still would be even if some one other than Hermione had been targeted for his vile acts. Until the previous day their problems with Malfoy had still seemed like schoolboy rivalries to a certain extent. Now it was very real and very dangerous. It was made even more so with the revealed actions of Malfoy senior in the background. Harry had no doubt that had this incident never happened, that Malfoy was still on the path to emulate his father—he had undoubtedly gone much too far for redemption, even should the boy even want such a thing. Harry was certain he did not, and would never desire it; he would have to feel remorse and would have to understand that he his beliefs and his father were wrong. The idea that Malfoy would admit that he was wrong was laughable.

The light of the bright morning sun had certainly not changed Harry's resolution from the previous night. He would do whatever it took to keep both girls safe—and indeed his resolve extended to all of his friends—no matter what the cost. At present he did not know how he would accomplish it, especially with the specter of the Horcrux hanging over his head like an axe waiting to fall. He only knew that no sacrifice was too great, even if his life if it came to that. He had avoided thinking about the matter for the past several months, but there was no guarantee that a solution to his Horcrux problem would be found, and if it could not be, then he would accept the inevitable and make sure that Voldemort was to be defeated before he himself met his fate.

He would need to be careful to keep any suggestion of such thoughts away from Hermione and Fleur in particular, but also especially from his other friends, and Sirius and the Delacours, not to mention Dumbledore. None of them would appreciate him harboring such thoughts.

But Harry fancied that being under such a death sentence gave him a perspective that the others could not truly understand. And it was this perspective that filled him with the determination that should he be required to die, that he would make certain that his death meant something.

When they entered the Great Hall, he and Hermione were surprised when their friends at the Gryffindor table welcomed them with cheers and applause, not to mention whistles and catcalls, courtesy of the Weasley twins. With some embarrassment at the display, they sat amongst their friends, which also included Luna from the Ravenclaw table, Susan from Hufflepuff, and Tracey and Daphne from Slytherin. It did not escape his notice that the rest of the students watched their entrance with interest, and that the whispered conversations were rampant. Clearly the events of the previous day had not, as yet, been fully been explained to the student body as a whole

It was Fleur who approached them first, with a hug for Hermione, and kiss on Harry's cheek. "Welcome back," she whispered to both of them.

Harry returned her kiss with a fervent one of his own, reveling in the closeness he was coming to share with the blond girl, reflecting that he was lucky to have two such wonderful women in his life.

"We've got hand it to you, Harry," one of the twins said when they had taken their seats, "you've really got the market cornered when it comes to rescuing damsels."

"Maybe you should start a business," chimed in the other. "You could call it call it Harry's Rescue Service."

"Potter's Recovery Rangers?"

"No Creature's Too Big Inc."

"Ferret to Basilisk and Everything in Between: Pest Control for All Occasions."

"Either way, I bet you'd make a killing."

"Not helping," Harry replied in warning tone.

"Methinks he doesn't know us, brother."

"Especially if he thinks that we were actually trying to help."

A round of laughter spread through their friends, but soon the discussion turned much more serious. Daphne turned an exasperated eye on the twins, who immediately quieted—though their irrepressible grins did not fade a jot—and then she turned back to Hermione.

"You're okay, Hermione?"

"Other than those foul potions Madam Pomfrey insists I take, I'd say I'm recovered."

"Good. I only wish there was a way we could show you to Malfoy before they take him away this morning. It would serve the git right to see you returned to health while he's got a date with the Dementors."

"And really piss him off!" Ron burst in with a chortle.

This time, there were more grim looks than laughs, part, Harry thought, of this indefinable change which had settled over them all. They had all been altered by these events, and had grown into perhaps more responsible and determined individuals. They were becoming warriors, if such a term may be used for those so young and still truly inexperienced. Harry had no doubt that the coming conflict would see them all gain that experience, and likely far sooner than any of them would have wished.

"Thank you all for your help yesterday," Hermione was saying. "Without you all, I might not have made it."

"Hey, Hermione," Ron replied, "what are friends for? You just make sure that the next time one of those gits tries anything, that you hand their arse back to them in a sling."

Hermione smiled at him. "I'll keep that in mind, Ronald."

"You know, I can't help but think that maybe I'm a little to blame too," Daphne said into the ensuing silence.

"Unless you Imperiused Malfoy into attacking Hermione, I hardly think you can be blamed," Ron replied. Despite the serious nature of the conversation, there were a few grins at the sight of Ron actually defending a Slytherin.

Daphne sighed. "I don't _really_ think it was my fault. It's just that I should have seen what was coming. On Saturday night, Malfoy was pretty blatant. He told me that I had better be prepared because he was coming after me next."

"Sounds like Malfoy's typical brand of bravado," Harry stated.

"Yes, but he's been acting at least _a little more Slytherin_ since winter break. I should have warned you all. I should have figured out that he was trying to deflect me in another direction from what he was really trying to do."

"You don't know that, Daphne," Tracey interrupted in her usual blunt manner. "It's equally possible that he was just being the same old Malfoy. If he had really wanted to distract our attention, I think he would have said or done something in front of us all."

A chorus of agreement met Tracey's words, and Harry, agreeing with his friends' sentiments, reached across the table and grasped her hand, squeezing it in a comforting gesture. "Now is not the time for thinking about what might have been. If you think about it, I'm far more to blame for allowing Hermione to go off by herself."

"Don't blame yourself, Harry," Hermione insisted. "He turned out to be a little sneakier than we gave him credit for."

"But that's my point. If I'm not to blame for what happened, then for Daphne certainly shouldn't blame herself."

Daphne gazed at Harry for several moments, a half smile on her face, before she responded. "You're a good man, Harry Potter."

The discussion became a little more typical for breakfast in the Great Hall after that, and Harry, though he participated by saying the appropriate words when necessary, he was also left with some time for his own thoughts. And perhaps unsurprisingly, his thoughts centered on a certain dark haired and very attractive Slytherin of his acquaintance.

Ever since their conversation on the Hogwarts Express when they were returning after the Yule celebration, Harry had watched the other girl closely. It appeared like she had given up on any thought of making an alliance with him by means of a betrothal contract, and for that he was grateful. She seemed to understand now that she was his friend, and as such was trusted and valued as an ally. A betrothal agreement was not necessary in Harry's mind—Harry Potter took care of his friends, and a piece of paper enforcing that fact was simply unnecessary.

What he was not certain of was just exactly what the girl felt for him now. He was well aware of the fact that she was at least interested, and he had not forgotten of his promise to revisit her potential interest at a later date. He also did not know how he felt about her. She was intelligent, beautiful, and truly a good person, and Harry was well aware of the fact that she was very desirable as a potential marriage partner.

But Harry already had two women he felt would end up as wives—Fleur for certain, due to the marriage contract, but also to his rapidly deepening feelings for her, and Hermione who, while they were still young, fit together with him as though they had been created for each other. Did he really want to dilute his attentions to the two extremely important women in his life in order to focus on another one? And would Daphne be content to be one of three, rather than the sole focus of his attention?

Harry had no answers. And though he knew that there was still plenty of time to determine those answers, it was still on his mind. Maybe he was too concerned about the future. The present was, after all, filled with uncertainty and this did not even take into account the Horcrux, the existence of which continued to cast doubt on his very future—and was, in fact, the very subject he had just ruminated on while making his way to the Great Hall.

It was then that Harry felt a little disgusted with himself; now was not the time to consider romantic attachments. After Voldemort and the Horcrux were both sorted out he could worry about such things, but until then he would focus on what was important.

Near the end of the normal time for breakfast, Dumbledore stood and called out for the attention of the students. It quickly became clear that he wished to address the rumors which ran rampant throughout the school about exactly what happened the previous day, as he quickly launched into an explanation. He covered the topic in a vague manner, focusing on the fact that Malfoy had been thwarted by the combined efforts of Hermione's friends, and that he was to be taken to the Ministry and would be facing charges. And though Dumbledore did not address the fact that one of the charges the little git would face was the use of an unforgiveable—which carried an automatic life term in Azkaban—he still made it clear that Malfoy would not be returning to the school. At the same time, he also announced the fates of Crabbe and Goyle, saying only that their expulsion was a result of their own actions in attacking another student in the halls. If it had not been clear before that such behavior would not be tolerated, it certainly was now—anyone else who acted in the same manner would face the same punishment.

While there were no outright cheers at the announcement that Malfoy would not be returning to Hogwarts, it was obvious from the relief on most faces that he would not be missed by the vast majority of the students. Only a few Slytherins showed any sort of chagrin at the fact that the leader of their bigotry would no longer be present to carry their standard. Of course it was the ever-faithful Pansy who seemed most upset, and the glare she shot at Harry's section of the Gryffindor table was positively poisonous. For the rest of the students… well it was very evident that Malfoy was one of the most hated students to have passed through the halls of Hogwarts in many years.

It was after breakfast was largely finished, when the Headmaster approached Harry and gestured for him to follow, while directing a smile at his friends. "I need to borrow Mr. Potter for a few moments. Do not worry—I shall return him to you in time for your first class."

Agreeing, Harry squeezed the hands if both of his girls before turning and following the Headmaster. They did not go far—only to a nearby anteroom, which had the distinction of being empty, before Dumbledore turned and faced him. Harry could immediately see that whatever he wished to discuss, it was something serious.

"I took the opportunity to visit with Mr. Malfoy again this morning, Harry," Dumbledore began without preamble. "And I have discovered something of a potentially serious nature. It seems as though Mr. Malfoy expects a major attack by Voldemort's forces to occur shortly."

Harry was more than a little skeptical. "What would Malfoy know about it?"

"Unfortunately, not much, though I would have expected him to possess little actual knowledge. He did not know the target or the timetable, but as his information is corroborated by Professor Snape, I believe we must take it seriously."

That got Harry's attention. "Professor Snape knows something is about to happen?"

"Again, nothing specific. Last night Professor Snape was called to Voldemort's side, and he reported that though the Dark Lord's lair is usually fairly quiet, last night it was a hive of activity. Voldemort did not confide in Professor Snape, but he was asking questions concerning my whereabouts and my routine for the next few days. It all points to an imminent attack."

Harry sat back in his chair, one thought echoing in his head. _"So it begins."_ But now was not the time to feel pity, or wish that it had all been different. Obviously Dumbledore had a reason to bring this up.

"I have informed Madam Bones of my suspicions and she is preparing the Ministry's forces for an attack, though they have actually been preparing for some time, as we knew that Voldemort would not allow the execution of his inner circle members to pass without responding."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Because I want your Defense Club to be ready for anything."

Though he had perhaps not expected this, Harry was not fazed by Dumbledore's words. "What about the teachers?"

"They will, of course, be in charge of the school when I am required elsewhere. However, I would like for your Defense Club to handle the patrolling of the school should it be required."

Dumbledore paused for a moment and he fixed Harry with a stern gaze. "Harry, let me be blunt. I am concerned that Voldemort's plan is nothing more than a ruse to draw me from Hogwarts. He may attempt to take over the castle while my attention is fixed elsewhere."

"Can he get past the wards?"

"The wards are strong, but not infallible. Our best defense is vigilance, and that is why I have asked for your help.

"Normally I would ask Professor McGonagall to have the prefects patrol the halls as we did at times during the first war, but I am afraid that we cannot know who might be a Voldemort supporter. From what I see of the Defense Club, the members are personally loyal to you. I believe that we are better to put our trust in your club."

"To me?" Harry asked, surprised at such a suggestion.

"Indeed," Dumbledore replied with a hint of a smile. "You are an exceptional leader, Harry—do not sell yourself short. I suspect you will have ample warning should Voldemort try to gain access through the wards. What I want from you and the club is for you to thwart any other methods of the Death Eaters gaining access to the castle, most likely through the help of those inside."

"Do you think they can?"

"I hope not. But I am not infallible, and it's possible that I may have missed something. With your members patrolling, we should be able to foil any attempts before they get started."

Again, Harry was somewhat surprised that Dumbledore was willing to trust him, considering the fact that they were all still school children. Still, he supposed that short of stationing a platoon of Aurors at the school—which might not be a bad idea should the situation deteriorate—the Defense Club was the best option Dumbledore had. It also did not escape his attention that only the week before, Daphne had suggested the change to the _Defense Association_, and a more structured, militaristic organization. It would assist them in the event that their assistance was required as the Headmaster was requesting.

"We can handle the patrols, sir," Harry replied. "Fleur, Hermione and I can set up a kind of a headquarters in the Great Hall and work with Professor McGonagall, and we can set up a duty patrol of the castle. Last week we decided to change it up a bit. We've now got a basic command structure, with several troops, each with leaders and assistants, and everything. We should also keep an eye on other important locations—watch the entrances to the passages, station watchers on some of the towers. Stuff like that."

Dumbledore nodded with approval. "That is exactly what I was hoping for, Harry. I will allow you to work out the details with your friends. I might also advise that you devise some way to communicate with each other."

This was a very good idea, Harry thought, and he was certain that if Fleur and Hermione put their heads together, they could come up with something which would serve admirably in very little time.

"We'll do that."

"Very well. I believe it is now time for you to return to your friends and attend your first class today."

They parted at that point, Harry headed straight toward the History classroom, which was to be his first class of the day. Along the way, his head was filled with thoughts and plans, ideas and bits of inspiration, all clamoring for attention in his head. This was something they could accomplish, a way to make a difference if only in a small way, and Harry was determined to justify the Headmaster's faith in him.

* * *

In the Great Hall, the friends continued to converse for the few minutes before classes were due to start. The conversation was desultory, and not of any great depth, but for Hermione, being returned to the bosom of her friends was a ray of sunshine after a dark night. And the night had indeed been dark, and Hermione knew that to a certain extent, the horror of the previous day would stay with her for the rest of her life.

Physically, Hermione was mostly recovered, with just the aches and minor pains still left over to remind her of what had occurred. Madam Pomfrey had assured her that there would not even be much in the way of scarring left, so effective had Professor Snape's counter-curse been.

Mentally, however, the true effects of the incident were still to be known, Hermione was certain. The previous night she had slept well, but that was because of the dreamless sleep potion which Madam Pomfrey had insisted she take, for which Hermione was grateful. Hermione was not certain that the following nights would be free of night terrors—in fact, she was almost certain that she would hear Malfoy's words, hear his disgusting promises, and feel again the pain of the curse which had almost taken her life.

The physical pain and the violent attack, while disturbing, were not the worst, however. The worst were the vile things that Malfoy had said to her, the promises of what her fate would have been had he been successful in spiriting her away. Given some of the things which had been revealed during the Death Eater trials—and more specifically by the cretin's father!—Malfoy's words had created a vivid picture in Hermione's mind as to the horrors which would have been inflicted upon her by those animals. Hermione was well aware of the clarity and vividness of her imagination. The words and the images had combined to make an almost nausea inducing picture of what awaited her should she ever be captured and actually taken to Voldemort. Better she died before that happened.

In order to combat such night terrors, Hermione attempted to put up a front of health and unconcern, and to a certain extent, she thought she was successful. Her friends were perhaps a trifle more sympathetic toward her, and were perhaps extra caring in the way they tried to comfort her, but she witnessed no overt worried looks or expressions of concern, though she was certain that they _were_ watching her a little more closely than normal. And as long as she concentrated on what was happening at the time, or the conversation of her friends, she was fine. It was the night she was dreading.

The other change was the way Harry had treated her that morning, or at least until he had been called away by Dumbledore. He had not been shy in his demonstrations of affection, and had been extra solicitous, offering to prepare a plate of breakfast for her, making certain she was comfortable in her seat, and helping her to rise or sit when needed. If there had still be any doubt as to whether she was involved with Harry in a romantic sense, his behavior that morning would have dispelled it completely.

Harry had saved her twice now—three times if she counted his Patronus driving away the Dementors in their third year. And though Hermione fancied herself intelligent and emotionally mature enough to have feelings for him based on something other than the way he had acted to save her, she could not deny the fact that this incident had served to expand her feelings for her friend to an even deeper level than they had inhabited before. Simply put, Hermione was well aware that she was head over heels now for her friend, if she had not already been before.

The unknown factor in all of this was Fleur.

That was not to say that Fleur had behaved any differently than she had previously—she was still the same contented, genuine individual she had been as long as Hermione had actually known her. It was more the subtle things that perhaps no one who was not as close to her as Hermione had become would have noticed. The previous night while she had visited with her parents, Hermione had watched Fleur and Harry as they interacted together, and what she had seen had caused a little concern. Hermione had caught Fleur with a bit of a wistful smile on occasion, while at times she thought that she had detected a hint of sadness in Fleur's manner. These were things that she had rarely seen in Fleur over the past several months, or even really since she had known the girl well since the previous summer.

After Hermione's parents had departed and Harry had left them alone for a moment to prepare for bed, Hermione had taken the opportunity to subtly prod Fleur about her behavior. But the French witch had claimed that nothing was the matter, and that she was as contented as ever. She had specifically and with much passion declared how thankful she was that Harry had managed to intercede before Malfoy had been able to escape with her, and in that Hermione knew Fleur was genuinely happy. Whatever it was that was causing Fleur to be a little melancholy, the other girl would neither acknowledge, nor be explicit. Hermione was determined to find out what it was and to help the other girl through whatever was bothering her.

Harry's departure with Dumbledore was the perfect opportunity, as Hermione knew that she could not really have a conversation such as the one she was contemplating with Harry present. He would immediately latch onto it and blame himself for whatever was bothering Fleur, noble as he was.

When they left Gryffindor table and made their way from the Great Hall, Hermione made certain that she walked next to Fleur, as they made their way toward their first classes—Hermione to History, and Fleur to the Transfiguration corridor. Seeing that no one was close enough to overhear their conversation, Hermione began, hoping to coax Fleur into revealing the source of her upset.

"I think we have to be the two luckiest witches in existence," she began.

Fleur, who had apparently been deep in thought, started and looked over at Hermione. A moment later she caught on to what Hermione had said and smiled. "Harry is everything any girl could ever want. Yes, I do think we're lucky."

"I want to thank you for offering this chance," Hermione continued, glancing at her companion. "I knew what I felt for Harry, of course, but I never would have acted on it. I'd never have found something so wonderful in another boy if not for you."

Fleur paused very briefly—which in itself spoke volumes—before she smiled at Hermione. "I knew the feelings you had for each other; they were clear to any Veela paying attention. I'm glad you've joined us, Hermione. Harry deserves whatever happiness we can give him, and I'm glad that I have someone like you to help me make him happy."

"Are you sure there are no other marriage contracts out there?" Hermione asked playfully.

A theatrical shudder met Hermione's question. "No, I'm certain that Papa and Sirius checked to make certain there were no others. Another one could muddy the waters significantly, and I know they wanted to avoid that."

"That's a good thing," Hermione replied. "I'd hate to have to share him with someone like… Cho Change."

Fleur turned a curious eye on Hermione. "Do you have something against Cho?"

"Not really," said Hermione with a shake of her head. "But she's always seemed a bit… I don't know. Needy perhaps? I'm not sure I can put it into words. Anyway, she just popped into my head as an example."

"Better her than Bulstrode."

This time it was Hermione who shuddered. "Don't even suggest such a thing."

A tinkle of laughter met Hermione's words, and she quickly joined in with her friend. Whatever Fleur was being bothered by, she _did_ appear to be in better spirits now than she had been before. Now did not appear to be the time to press her on the subject, as she did not wish to ruin Fleur's good mood. And if it was gone altogether, then so much the better. Conversely, if she did show signs of melancholy later, Hermione could take steps then to find out what was bothering her and to cheer her up.

Satisfied with her efforts for the time being, and having arrived at the location where they would have to part to get to their separate classes, Hermione reached out and grasped Fleur's hand, squeezing it once in farewell and turned to depart.

"One moment please, oh fair maidens."

Hermione and Fleur turned as one to see their friends approaching from where they had been following behind. In the lead were the Weasley siblings, though some members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team were also present, as well as Luna, Neville and many of their other friends.

"Please allow us to escort you to our next class," one of the twins said to Fleur, offering his arm to her.

Ron approached Hermione and performed the same function as his older brother had provided to Fleur. Within moments, Hermione found herself in the company of her friends, walking through the corridors toward the History classroom. She felt almost like she was being escorted by a cadre of bodyguards, as her friends were now almost surrounding her and Ron as they walked.

Turning a suspicious eye on Ron, Hermione said, "So what's all this about?"

"What's what about?" Ron tried innocently. She made him aware that she was not fooled in the slightest by virtue of the less than amused glare she directed at him. "I think you'd best allow us to take care of you, Hermione," Ron replied without a hint of a smile.

"I think I can take care of myself, Ron," Hermione replied, before she blushed as the memory of the previous day once again intruded on her mind.

"No doubt you can," Ron replied, eschewing any mention of those events. "But me and the rest of our friends talked about this. You and Fleur are now bigger targets because of your relationships with Harry, and we're not about to allow anything to happen to you again."

Startled, Hermione peered around at the other members of the group. Other than Neville, Daphne and Tracey walked with them, as well as Susan, Hannah, Parvati, Padma, and most of the rest of their year mates. It was clear that this was not only a show of solidarity of their close friends, but also of the entirety of the club.

Hermione turned her attention back to Ron, who was now grinning at her, no doubt emboldened by the fact that he was backed up by just about every member of their year. "So Fleur and I are both going to get this treatment?"

"Well, perhaps not precisely the same treatment," Susan piped up. "There are a lot more fifth year members of the club than seventh year members. But yes—you will both have escorts from now on. It's the least we can do after what Harry has done to teach us, and what you and Fleur have done to assist him in preparation."

"Besides the fact that you both make him happy," Daphne added.

Hermione shared a long look with the Slytherin, and at the end of it she nodded once in the other girl's direction. Hermione was not unaware of the interest the Slytherin girl had shown in Harry, but it seemed that in this matter, friendship and mutual support were more important than any budding interest.

"I suppose I'll just have to get used to it then," Hermione replied.

In truth, she was not displeased with their presumption. It had been proven to them all just what a determined enemy could do given the opportunity. Hermione was not about to resist such a gesture based on nothing more than pride, or a belief in her own competence. She _knew_ she was competent—she did not need to prove it to anyone else.

"But that goes for all the rest of you too," Hermione continued sternly. "If Malfoy can trick us all and come after me, then any one of you could also be targeted. We _all_ need to make sure we keep to the company of friends and not get caught alone and unaware."

And so the pact was agreed upon, and her friends all promised that from now on, no one would walk the halls of Hogwarts alone. Hermione could not help but think that they had just taken a significant stride forward that day, and they would all be safer because of it. Just let Nott or Parkinson, or any other Voldemort supporter try to catch them unaware!

* * *

In another part of the castle, there was a certain Voldemort supporter who longed to catch Hermione Granger and all of her friends unaware. The fact that he had failed once already quite escaped the boy's notice, so consumed was he by the thought of wreaking bloody vengeance on the lot of them.

To put it mildly, Draco Malfoy was incensed. Not only had his plan been foiled by the untimely arrival of that jumped up Halfblood, but Draco was required to put up with these unsuitable accommodations. With distaste, Draco peered around the dim confines of the cell he had inhabited since the previous day. Who even knew that Hogwarts had cells? Draco would have thought that the cells would have disappeared long ago in light of the fact that the world was now more civilized than it had been.

_"Civilized!"_ thought Draco with utter contempt. As if Dumbledore and the others could claim even the slightest jot of civilization, with their embrace of Mudbloods, creatures, and other filth. Draco had wished that he had a wand available when the old fool of a Muggle lover had shown up twice to talk to him—Dumbledore deserved nothing but his contempt.

But the worst was Potter. Though his line had been polluted with his father's unfortunate decision to marry that Mudblood, his was still a long and distinguished line. And yet he had rebuffed Draco's efforts to show him the correct path. Perhaps the Dark Lord might have been induced to forgive the Halfblood the actions of his parents, if only he had chosen the proper path. Of course he would _always_ be inferior, given _half_ of his heritage, but at least he could have been respectable, with Draco's guidance. It was now all just dust in the wind—Potter must die, as must all who opposed the Dark Lord.

And how had he managed to thwart Draco's carefully thought out and executed plan. Once the Mudblood had been induced to leave her friends, his success should have been assured, even if the ruse had been discovered. _How had_ Potter known where to go? It almost seemed like he had known in advance, abut if he had, then why had he allowed Granger to leave the hall to be captured? It made no sense whatsoever.

It was a conundrum that Draco could not solve, no matter how he worried at it. Perhaps it did not matter—it was not as though Draco would have another chance at the Mudblood after all. At least not for some time.

But there would come another time, Draco coldly assured himself. The Mudblood would pay. For now, he would have to submit to the Ministry, though it galled him to have to submit to anything. Eventually, however, the Dark Lord would ensure his release and Draco would become his right-hand man. The world would learn to fear his name.

The lock in the door suddenly turned and the door opened, much to Draco's surprise. He rose and scowled as his head of house entered the room. _Former_ head of house, he supposed, as the old Muggle lover would almost certainly expel him now.

"Draco," Snape greeted. His voice and his manner were as cold as Draco had ever seen from him, and that was saying something—the man had never been known to be even remotely friendly, even to the members of his own house.

"What _do you_ want?" Draco demanded.

"Charming to the last, Mr. Malfoy," Snape replied, a faint but still frigid smile coloring his face. "I have come to speak to you before you are removed from these premises."

"I don't want to talk to you," Draco replied, attempting to keep the sullen note from his voice. Given the sneer the potions master favored him with, he had not been successful. "Shouldn't you be cozying up to Dumbledore or something?"

"I suggest you worry about your own situation, Mr. Malfoy, and allow me to concern myself with my own affairs."

"What do you want?"

"Only to remind you of what you should already know," Snape replied. "That was a very foolish thing you did. Now the Dark Lord has lost three assets at Hogwarts which will almost certainly affect his plans."

"Three assets?" Draco asked, confused.

"Yes." Snape sneered at him, and leaned against the wall, arrogance alive in his very posture. "Once Potter learned of your abduction of Granger, he went haring through the halls to find her, when Crabbe and Goyle ambushed him. They are both buffoons, so Potter made short work of them, but since Dumbledore made it clear that attacks on other students would no longer be tolerated, he expelled them. They were removed from the school yesterday."

"Idiots," Draco mumbled under his breath.

"Indeed."

The potions master said nothing further, and if Draco had not known better, he might have thought that he had included Draco in with the 'idiots' by the tone of his last statement. Draco peered at the potions master, wondering exactly what his game was. "What I did was commanded by the Dark Lord. Would you have me refuse him?"

"Of course not," Snape replied with more than a little impatience "However, I would expect you to carry out your instructions with competence and ensure your _success!_"

"It would have been at least partially successful if you'd let the bitch die!" Draco protested hotly.

"So that Dumbledore could discover my true allegiance?" Snape replied, the scathing tone in his voice seeming to almost flay Draco where he stood. "Then I would become as _useless_ to the Dark Lord as you have. I had no choice but to save her, you fool!"

Chagrinned, Draco glanced down at the floor, though internally he was seething at being dressed down by one who was, after all, his inferior. "I have no idea how Potter managed to find us. He shouldn't have known where to look for us, even if he did discover the ruse with the polyjuice."

"Let that be your first lesson," Snape instructed. "Never underestimate your enemy."

"Potter is nothing but a glorified Halfblood."

"And if you continue to think that way he will continue to best you."

Draco glared at Snape, but the potions master merely returned his stare, not giving an inch. "Do you think the Dark Lord underestimates Dumbledore?" Snape asked quietly. "Watch the Dark Lord and attempt to learn from him. If you do not, you will never be successful in his eyes. The Dark Lord can be patient, but he does not accept repeated failure. He also does not suffer fools lightly."

Draco looked up sharply at Snape, wondering if he had understood him correctly. Snape sneered and nodded. "Yes, you are correct. The Dark Lord has asked me to tell you that he will extricate you from your current predicament. But you must not expect him to act soon; I rather suspect he will allow you to suffer for a while so that you may consider your incompetence."

With that, Snape—ignoring Draco's anger—turned and sauntered from the cell, closing the door and locking it as he left. And Draco was indeed left to stew in his own thoughts. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how one looked at it—he was not left alone for long.

The door once again opened and Dumbledore entered with his typical lurid robes, but this time he was followed by a pair of grim-faced Aurors. Draco decided to stay silent—there was nothing to be gained by speaking, and the old fool would not listen to him anyway.

"Up on your feet, Mr. Malfoy," the Headmaster said. Draco could detect a hint of regret in the man's tone, but he ignored it as not worth his notice. "You will be accompanying these Aurors to the Ministry today, to begin to answer for the things you have done."

Again Draco chose to ignore the elderly man. The Aurors stepped forward, one grasping his hands, and the other fitting him with a pair of magic suppressing cuffs. Draco peered at the two men with contempt, making sure to memorize their features. They would pay for this indignity.

"Very well," Dumbledore said when they had finished. "He is all yours.

"I hope, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore continued, turning to face him, "that you take the time you will undoubtedly have at your disposal to think about your actions and atone, if only for your own peace of mind."

"Your time will come, old man," Draco snarled, completely forgetting his determination to avoid speaking.

"I am certain it will," Dumbledore agreed affably. "But neither you nor I know when that time will be, so I believe I shall be content to wait patiently for it."

With a final nod at the two Aurors, Dumbledore departed from the cell. The Aurors turned to follow, prodding Draco as they moved. They were not unkind or rough, but Draco still found himself enraged at the fact that they had dared to touch him at all.

"Come on, son," one of them stated as he led the way out the door. "We don't have all day."

"I'm not your son," Draco said haughtily. "I could not imagine being descended from such common stock as you."

The Auror—a tall, black-haired man, with grey appearing at his temples—regarded Draco evenly. "No, I suppose you are not. I guess we can all pity you for the father you had and the way you were brought up."

Draco bristled. "My father was a great man!"

The other Auror snorted. "It's no use talking to this one, Pete. He'd never listen to anything you or I had to say."

"Maybe he'll listen to the Dementors," Pete replied.

Though his captors said nothing further, Draco continued to speak to them, informing them of how they will lose their jobs for this travesty, but they appeared to pay him no mind, which only served to infuriate Draco all that much more.

They led him through the school, up to the main level, and then over toward the entrance hall, and along the way, they passed by several students, though most were in classes at that hour. The disdainful looks and overly exaggerated glee at his downfall shown by those who were to be found along their path once again filled him with rage, and no small measure of shame. To think that they could witness him—Draco of the prestigious house of Malfoy!—escorted from the premises with such ignominy was almost more than he could bear.

But the worst, was undoubtedly when they passed by Potter, who watched him closely as they approached. Draco sneered at him with disdain, but if he was honest with himself, the expression on Potter's face—the total contempt and promise of pain should they ever cross paths again—unnerved him. But Draco could not allow a mere Halfblood to see that, so he allowed his typical expression, reserved for those so obviously inferior, to come over his countenance.

"Shouldn't you be in class now, Potter?"

"Classes let out a few minutes ago," Potter replied. "You should really keep up with these things, old boy. But then again, going to classes is something you'll never have to worry about again, is it?"

Draco snarled at the boy. "You'll get yours, Potter," he promised.

"Possibly," Potter said with a shrug. "But where you're going, you won't be around to see it. I will tell you this, though." Potter's voice became abrasive, akin to flint grating on steel, and his eyes hardened, like emerald chips, as his gaze bored into Draco's face. "I don't expect to see you again, as I know you used the Imperius on at least two students, but if you ever make your way back to polite society and you so much as frown at Hermione or Fleur, there won't be anything left of you but a stain on the carpet."

"Tough threats from a meager wizard, Potter."

"What said it was a threat?" Potter replied pleasantly.

"Now, now, boys," one of the Aurors broke in. "We really do need to get Mr. Malfoy to the Ministry."

Potter waved them off. "He's all yours, gentlemen. I just wanted to have one last chat with him before he meets his fate."

Draco watched Potter as he walked away, a corrosive hatred such as he had never before felt filling his very being. If it was the very last thing he ever did, Draco would see Potter suffer the loss of everything he held dear before he was put down like the mongrel he was.

"Shall we be going then?"

Though he did not deign to respond to the Auror's words, Draco allowed himself to be dragged away, though he looked over his shoulder several more times to catch a glimpse of the retreating Gryffindor. All too soon they walked out to the entrance hall, and from thence onto the grounds of Hogwarts. For a moment he felt a wild surge of hope—perhaps this was where the Dark Lord would see to his rescue!

But nothing materialized as they walked, and once they had passed through the ward boundaries, the Aurors stopped, and one of them took what looked to be a small, metal toothpick. He waved his wand over it, and it expanded until it was a metal rod about two feet in length.

"All right Mr. Malfoy," the Auror named Pete said. "Here's where our journey gets a little faster. This rod is a portkey—we'll be at the Ministry in moments."

Draco cast a regretful glance about the area, but he made no reply to the Auror's words. The Aurors each grasped one end of the long rod and each grasped one of his arms in turn. Then Pete intoned, "Home Base!"

The pull behind his navel told Draco that the portkey had activated, and Draco felt himself being pulled along with the two men. After a short, but dizzying journey, Draco landed on his feet and stumbled, only just managing to catch himself, quite a feat considering his hands were bound.

And that was when all hell broke loose.

A concussive blast knocked Draco's hard won balance askew, and he tumbled heavily to the floor, landing on a shoulder with a grunt of pain. All about him, shouts rang out, the various colors of spells rocketed this way and that, and a smoky haze filled the room in which they stood. Just where had this portkey taken them?

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

Two brilliant green spells shot out almost simultaneously, each impacting with one of his escorts and they were thrown back to hit the floor with sightless eyes gazing vacantly up at the ceiling. For a moment, all Draco could do was to peer at them, stunned with the rapidity of their fate.

He was pulled roughly to his feet, and dragged off to the side of the room, and away from the center where he belatedly realized he would be a sitting duck for any stray spells. He looked around wildly, coming face to face with the harsh features of a man he did not know. The man jerked his hands out and, inserting a small key, loosed Draco's bindings, allowing him to fall to the floor. That accomplished, the man pushed Draco's wand and a small rock into his hand.

"The Dark Lord wants to see you."

With that, Draco again felt the pull behind his navel, and for the second time in less than five minutes, he found himself travelling by portkey. The Dark Lord would be there and Draco could not wait—he was free, and could now plot his revenge.

* * *

On the Chunnel train, a couple sat in the very back of one of the commuter compartments, as far away from other passengers as they could manage, given the fact that the train was rather busy that morning. A carefully erected though mild Muggle repelling charm and a few other privacy charms had guaranteed their isolation, and though they had not—as far as they were aware—garnered any special attention that morning, it did not hurt to be certain. Their conversation demanded such measures—one did not speak of soul shards and Dark Lords in the middle of a bunch of Muggles.

Thus it had been for much of the journey that morning. Though the information in the library and everything that the society had been able to tell them indicated that there was no way to removed a Horcrux, Remus was not about to give up. So they spent their time debating various ideas and thoughts, brainstorming anything they could think of which might lead to a solution.

"I think we might need to leave this to Dumbledore," Tonks finally said. Their ideas at once grown thinner and successively more outrageous, and this last silence had been of several minutes' duration. "If the ancients—who actually created Horcruxes—couldn't find the answer, then what chance do we stand?"

"I'd hope that advances in techniques and different magical systems would allow us to be _better_ suited to solve such a problem."

Tonks snorted. "You'd think. But practically, I'm not sure that holds true in this case."

Remus sighed and acknowledged her words with a terse nod, falling silent. Their speaking of it was certainly not leading them to any quick ideas of how to solve the riddle, and Remus had to admit that she was likely right. There did not seem to be anything they could do—perhaps Dumbledore would have more luck.

Upon leaving the train, they were to apparate to the Ministry—Remus was all for returning directly to Hogwarts, but in this instance, Tonks had overruled him, insisting that Hogwarts could wait. She needed to check in with Madam Bones first, and from there, they might find additional news which would tell them how to act. The return of Voldemort was now an acknowledged fact, but what they were not aware of was the status of the country, including how much leverage and influence Voldemort had managed to gain in their absence.

It was perhaps a good thing that they were going to the Ministry first for another reason—it would allow Remus time to formulate his thoughts. There was a lot of information which they would need to share once they arrived at Hogwarts, and it would need to be disseminated in a logical manner to avoid misunderstanding and complicating the issue. Remus would welcome that time while Tonks checked in, to get everything into order in his head.

"Remus," Tonks's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "I was wondering if I could ask you something?"

"Sure," Remus replied, turning back to look at her.

Tonks hesitated for a moment, seemingly indecisive, before she almost visibly squared her shoulders and peered at him from behind long lashes.

"I was wondering… What I mean to say is…" She paused and then sighed. "I've been sending you… signals, and I was wondering… Are you not interested, or just obtuse?"

Remus could not help but smile. He had wondered when this conversation would come about, and clearly her hesitance was born from some inborn witch's reticence about such manners, and though he knew Tonks was a Halfblood, apparently some of the _proper Pureblood behavior_ had passed from mother to daughter. Apparently not enough, though.

"Smooth, Tonks," he replied with a grin.

"Just answer the question, you big lug," was her irritated reply. But though she feigned gruffness, she did not truly appear to be displeased. Such was the strength of the bantering relationship they had built up.

Sighing, Remus felt his amusement bleed away—he had been dreading this conversation since it became clear that she was interested. He knew he had to let her down, and it had to be done gently, as he did not wish to hurt her. The fact remained that she was a beautiful young woman, and he was a broken down man who had seen too much, experienced too much sorrow, and had spent too many full moons as a ravening beast. It simply would not work.

"Noticed, yes," he replied.

"And?" Tonks prompted through narrowed eyes.

"I'm sorry, Tonks. I just don't think it's a good idea."

"What's a good idea?" Tonks demanded.

Remus sighed again, slightly annoyed that she was making him be explicit. "I think there is someone out there who will eventually sweep you off your feet. I'm sorry, but I can't be that person for you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can we just leave it be?" Remus asked plaintively.

Tonks regarded him, her expression unreadable. "Just answer me one question, and then I'll leave you alone. Are you just not interested in me?"

"It's not that," Remus said earnestly. "I think you're a great girl, Tonks."

"Then what is it?" she asked, though her manner and displeasure suggested that she already knew what he was about to say.

"You know of my reasons, Tonks," Remus replied, injecting a firmness into his voice which he hoped would discourage her from continuing on with this line of questioning. "I cannot subject my problem—"

"Oh spare me the werewolf sob story, Lupin," she said behind clenched teeth. "If it doesn't bother me, then why would you worry about it?"

"You don't know—"

"Yes I do, Wolfie. Are you forgetting that I just spent more than two months with you? In that time you've had three transformations. I think I know what I'm dealing with."

Remus allowed his head to slip back against the back of the seat, and he looked toward the ceiling, praying for patience. "Listen, Tonks. You are a great girl and anyone would be lucky to be with you. I just can't subject you to my affliction."

"Shouldn't I be the one to decide if you are 'subjecting' me to it?" Tonks asked.

"What about children?" Remus demanded, though on some level he knew he was grasping at straws. "I don't even know if I can father children, and if I do, will I pass lycanthropy on to them? You might never be able to have children if you pursue this."

"Well aren't you a quick worker?" Tonks jibed, though with a smile. "You're moving on from a suggestion to give a relationship a try, all the way to marriage and children all in one go. A bit presumptuous of you, don't you think?"

Gazing at her soberly, Remus reached out and grasped her hand. "I think I know a little something about you," he said. "I don't think you would take such a step without considering the future first. I want to make sure you've considered all of this before you do something you may regret."

"So you're not opposed to seeing me as more than a friend."

"You know what my objections are, Tonks. They're not objections of you."

She was silent, regarding him for several minutes, and though Remus could not claim to be able to know what she was thinking, the responses to which he was accustomed from others when considering his lycanthropy—pity, disgust, revulsion—were most decidedly not present. She appeared to be thinking of how to respond and Remus, though secretly flattered that she could consider him in such a manner, roundly wished that she had not brought up the subject in the first place. It could come to no good in the end, and she was better if she just dropped it.

"I think you don't give yourself enough credit," she finally said, much to his surprise. "You're kind and compassionate, firm in what you believe, gentle, intelligent, and a fine catch for any woman. So what if you're weighed down by an affliction which is not your fault? _It doesn't have to rule your life, Remus!_ It can only continue to do so if you let it.

"I can tell you one thing—your lycanthropy does not scare me away. The only thing which will scare me away is your own feelings. If you can't feel anything for me, I won't like it, but I will accept it. And as for children, there are a lot of unknowns. But I think that if we brought a child into the world, the child would be loved and accepted for whom and what it was, not for what traits it might inherit from you."

Remus peered into her eyes, his own beginning to water at the depth of her sentiments, and the import of her words. He found that he was moved by her words, but could not respond, so fierce were his emotions.

"You do not need to answer me now," Tonks said with some compassion. "But I refuse to be frightened away when I know that you are one of the gentlest men I know. You think about it. Think about what you want in life. I'll be here waiting for you."

With that, Tonks turned toward the window and intently peered out of it, though there was not much to see in the depths of the tunnel. Remus looked down at his watch distractedly—it was almost time for the train to emerge from the tunnel. They would be in England very soon.

He looked back up to see that Tonks was still keeping her vigil out the window, and thus he was left to his thoughts. Could Tonks be right? Had he allowed his affliction to rule his life and weigh him down? It had been a part of him so long that he did not know anything else—he certainly did not remember a time before Greyback had bitten him. It _was _a serious affliction and one which had to be given proper consideration. But did it need to rule his life? Could he have the same kind of relationship with a woman two of his closest friends had once had? Was it possible?

The train made its way out of the Chunnel and through the English countryside, but Remus was largely unaware of its progression, so involved with his thoughts was he. When it finally came time to disembark, he reluctantly put them aside, determined to visit them again later. He did not miss the speculative looks Tonks sent his way, but he did not comment. She was obviously curious as to what his reaction to her words would be, but as Remus did not have any answers at this time, he kept his own counsel. There would be another similar conversation in their future. He was certain they both knew this.

They made their way through the terminal and past the customs agents and, finding an empty alley a few streets away, they apparated to the alley near the public Ministry entrance. It was only a few moments later that they were in the phone booth, descending into the depths of the earth.

What they found upon entering, was just about the last thing that either expected.

The first indication that anything was amiss, was the shouts of the combatants and the screams of the injured. A shouted curse drew Remus's attention, and he ducked behind the phone booth to avoid it, wincing as it shattered the glass in the booth.

"What's going on here?" Tonks yelled as she returned fire, catching an indistinct figure in the gloom with a reductor. The person on the other end of the curse let out a cry and hit the wall with considerable force. From further away in the direction of the elevators more shouts and screams echoed out and the hell of spells, splinters of wood and smoke moved through the air.

"Death Eater attack!" Remus yelled as he saw the distinct mask and robes of one of Voldemort's followers as it moved, barely visible through the smoke in the distance.

"We'd better fight our way up to the Auror department and the administrative offices," Tonks yelled in between curses. "The Minister would be their main target."

Mumbling to himself that it seemed impossible that anyone would target such a useless specimen as Fudge, Remus nevertheless prepared himself to make the push.

War had come to the Ministry.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Once again thanks to everyone who continues to follow _Heart and Soul_. Sorry for the bit of a cliffhanger. The next chapter will pick up and cover exactly what is happening in the Ministry.

2. I hope that most of you picked up on just how much of a jerk I was trying to portray Snape as. He could care less if Hermione is taken to Voldemort or what happens to her or anyone else, though most of what he said was a smoke screen for Malfoy. He's focused solely on his own revenge. He's truly a scum with few redeeming qualities.

3. I've had a couple of comments about ratcheting up the steaminess between some of the couples in this fic (particularly Sirius and Hestia, and Remus and Tonks, as they are "consenting adults") so I thought I'd address the subject again for the final time. First of all, neither of the couples are truly couples just yet, as the end of this chapter portrays. Second, I like to develop the relationships in a more thoughtful manner than just having them hop into the sack before they've truly made an emotional connection. I've left just what happens between them ambiguous enough that if you really want to, you can imagine that they've already done the horizontal mambo. Finally, remember that I don't write smut, so don't expect to see any.

4. In an opposing vein, I've had people complain that I kept the canon pairing of Remus and Tonks intact, citing the age difference as reason why they should not be together. I _like_ the pairing, to be honest—it's one of the few canon pairings I can tolerate. Their age difference is 13 years, and as I have a brother who is married to a woman who is 12 years younger, I really don't see it as an insurmountable hurdle. Sorry, but you'll just have to live with it if you continue to read.

5. I'm now about 7.5 chapters ahead in writing. I'm really looking forward to writing the next two chapters in the list, as a major—and probably the most surprising—plot twist is revealed in them. I'm thinking I'll catch just about _everyone_ by surprise with this one!

6. Finally, some who have been with this story for the long haul might remember, but a couple of days ago was the second anniversary of my nephew's death at the hands of a drunk driver. Now the bugger is putting my sister and her husband through hell—he initially pleaded guilty, but he's now decided he doesn't like prison, and his lawyer is trying to get a new trial for him. Now I won't tell people that they can't drink, but if you do, then don't drive! You may just kill someone's nephew, daughter, brother, father, sister, grandmother, etc, etc, etc, if you do. The victims are real people, as are their families, and too often, scumbags who kill someone get off without being punished on technicalities, and even if they don't, they do their best to screw the families while they do their time. Sorry if it sounds like I'm up on a soap box again, people. Time has dulled the pain somewhat, but the ongoing saga means that I'm still pretty pissed off at the travesty of our justice system (and yes, as a Canadian I can tell you that it's just as bad up here as down in the States where my nephew was killed).


	53. Chapter 52 – Fighting Darkness

**Previous: **Harry and Hermione are released from the hospital wing. Dumbledore asks Harry to make sure the Defense Association is ready to patrol the castle in case of a Death Eater attack. Hermione discovers that all the members of the club have decided to give her and Fleur extra protection. Malfoy gets a visit from Snape, and is escorted from Hogwarts by Aurors. He is freed and sent to Voldemort when they arrive at the destination. Remus and Tonks discuss their relationship, and walk into a battle when they arrive at the Ministry.

* * *

**Chapter 52 – Fighting Darkness**

Harry stood and watched as Draco Malfoy was escorted from the entry hall out into the courtyard, noting that the blond Slytherin—or perhaps now more correctly, _ex-Slytherin_—looked back at him several times with an absolutely murderous glare. Perhaps it was a little beneath him to taunt the boy so, but he had to admit that he had enjoyed it immensely. Being nice was all fine and dandy, but Malfoy deserved every ounce of contempt which Harry could muster, and his former resolution to avoid treating Malfoy with an overt level of meanness seemed pointless in light of what he had tried to do.

Once Malfoy had exited the hall and Harry could no longer see him, he turned away toward the Great Hall, coming face to face with his betrothed, and several others of their seventh year friends.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," one of the twins said in an atypically serious tone.

"You know it," Harry agreed. "Now if we could just get the rest of them out of here."

"All in good time, Harrikins," the other twin replied cheekily. "We have every confidence in your ability to take them down a peg or two should they try anything."

"Only if they annoy me," Harry said darkly. "Come on, guys—let's go to lunch."

The group turned to leave, but Fleur, stepping close to him, put a hand out on his arm, causing him to stop and look at her askance.

"You must have disappeared pretty quickly after your last class if you're already here watching Malfoy leave," Fleur stated.

"I heard when he was leaving, and decided to give him a send off."

Fleur searched his eyes for several moments. "Wanted to make sure he was actually leaving?"

Shrugging, Harry reached out and grasped one of her hands. "That and maybe have a word or two with the ponce."

"He deserves everything you say to him, Harry, but was it really necessary?"

"Maybe not," Harry admitted. "But I wanted him to understand that if there is a next time, I won't be so gentle. I won't have him coming after you and Hermione again without knowing _exactly_ what the consequences are."

"Hopefully you're worried about nothing—he did cast an unforgiveable, after all."

"Maybe so, but Voldemort has a distressing tendency to break his worst followers out of prison. If there is a next time for Malfoy, maybe he'll hesitate a little and think about what I just told him."

"I think you might be giving him too much credit."

"I may be," Harry admitted. "But a little extra warning can't hurt."

Smiling, Fleur drew close and reached up to brush her lips across his own. "You're a good man, Harry Potter. Don't ever change.

Harry thought idly of the fact that he had apparently grown quite a bit that year—though he was still of a rather lean build, and would likely always be so, he was now a good hand taller than Fleur, who had been a little taller than he during the tournament the previous year. For a boy who had often despaired of ever attaining any real height, it was a relief to have achieved a respectable amount of growth.

"Come on," Fleur said, pulling him toward the Great Hall, "let's get some lunch."

"Not so fast," Harry commanded, pulling her back to him. He wrapped his arms around her and his lips descended on hers. Fleur melted in his arms, matching his kiss with her own, and for a few moments the world around them disappeared as Harry concentrated on Fleur and the amazing feelings this beautiful girl was engendering.

"Oy, get a room, will you!" a shout rang out throughout the entrance hall.

Harry and Fleur sprang apart, Fleur just as breathless as Harry was himself, he noted with some satisfaction. Near the entrance to the Great Hall, a group of their friends stood, including Hermione, Ron, Neville, and most of their other fifth year friends. By the grin on his face, it was Ron who had spoken.

With a devilish grin of his own, Harry took Fleur's hand and pulled her toward the Great Hall, taking Hermione's hand in his other as he passed her. As they entered, he looked over his shoulder toward Ron and said, "You lot are just jealous that I have such a beautiful girl to kiss."

A round of laughter met his declaration, though there were a few murmurs of discontent.

"He doesn't have to rub our faces in it," Seamus said, with no little envy, given his tone.

"Maybe not," Ron said companionably. "But he does have a point."

"Actually, I'm not jealous," Neville chimed in. "After all, I've got a great girl of my own to kiss."

"You've got that right," said Luna, and she punctuated her words with a peck to Neville's lips.

Dean groaned. "What is the world coming to?" he demanded. "Both of the shyest guys in our year now have girlfriends."

"I think we've got our work cut out for us," add Seamus.  
"Well good luck to both of you," Harry said with an impudent grin. "But I better not see you sniffing around my girls."

"Don't get cocky, Potter," Dean growled, though the grin on his face belied his tough words.

"Only when I have a reason to be cocky," Harry snarked in response.

The bantering continued for some time as they made their way down the Gryffindor table and found some empty seats. Lunch proceeded in the usual manner, and for some time all seemed well in the world. Malfoy was gone from the school, the gorillas had been expelled, and for the time being, Voldemort was silent.

For the balance of the meal, Harry was in earnest conversation with his closest friends about Dumbledore's request from that morning. As they discussed how they could assist, a rough plan began to take shape. They had already divided the association into troops, and from there could further divide them into patrols in the various parts of the castle. By the end of the meal, they had a rough idea of how they would deploy if called upon, and planned to call a special meeting for that evening to further discuss and finalize their plans.

The meal had progressed to the point that almost everyone had eaten and those remaining in the hall—in actuality only a few had left—were sitting around talking, and postponing going to their afternoon classes for as long as possible, as was their wont on a Monday. Harry, in discussion with Hermione, had just about determined that it was time to leave, when the blue light of a Patronus streaked into the Great hall. Sitting up quickly, Harry watched the spell as he crossed the hall and stopped in front of the head table, where it coalesced into the form of a lynx. The Hall quickly silenced as the attention of the students was fixed upon the ethereal animal.

_Death Eaters attacking the Ministry. Minister's office cut off. We need help._

A collective gasp was accompanied by a sudden increase in the volume of conversation as the Patronus winked out of existence. Harry, however, had his eyes fixed upon Dumbledore, knowing that the time he had predicted had occurred, just earlier than he would have wished.

Almost as soon as the Patronus disappeared—and much faster than a man of his age had a right to—Dumbledore was on his feet and at the lectern. "Please stay calm, everyone. All students will stay in the Great Hall until further notice."

Then, motioning to the staff to follow him, he turned and made his way toward the anteroom where the champions had gathered the previous year, but not before turning and beckoning for Harry to join him. Though he was conscious that the eyes of most of the students were on him, Harry ignored them and hurried to join Dumbledore. In the back of his mind he was aware that the situation almost felt uncomfortably like that Halloween evening a year and a half earlier. At least the comments running between the students did not appear to include accusatory gazes or accusations of cheating.

When Harry entered the anteroom, Dumbledore was already giving his instructions to the teachers. It was clear he was intending to go to the Ministry, assess the situation for himself, and join the fight against Voldemort's forces. His next words confirmed this supposition.

"Harry," he said, turning as Harry entered the room, "I know it is earlier than you would have wished, but I think that the services I requested of your club members will be needed now. Are you able to implement your plans?"

"We will have to improvise on the fly a little, but we're ready to go," Harry replied.

"Good. As Deputy Headmistress, Professor McGonagall will be in charge of the school in my absence. You may take your directions from her. Work closely with the staff to protect the school. If anything, happens while I am gone you are to summon me, immediately," Dumbledore continued sternly, fixing each member in the room with an implacable stare. "Is that understood?"

"Aye, Albus," the Deputy Headmistress replied.

The Headmaster nodded once. "I will depart for the Ministry and gather all that I can to assist." By this, Harry understood that he meant that he would gather the Order together, but as there were people in the room who were not aware of the Order's existence, he could not be more explicit. "I must stress the fact that this may be a ruse to draw me away, but I have no information to confirm that."

Dumbledore surreptitiously glanced at Snape for an instant, but the other man shrugged, a clear indication that he had heard nothing further than whatever he had already told Dumbledore. Had Harry not been looking in the Potions Master's direction, wondering if he had given Dumbledore any information about the attack, he would not even have noticed the exchange. Regardless, it was apparent that there would be no further help from that quarter.

"I believe I should go too," Sirius interjected from where he had been following the conversation. "I used to be an Auror—I can help you retake the Ministry."

Dumbledore glanced over at Sirius and for a moment Harry thought he would ask Sirius to stay at Hogwarts. He said nothing, however, and simply nodded at the defense professor. The rest of the professors made no comment, though Dumbledore turned to Professor Flitwick.

"Professor, though I know you can handle yourself, I think we would be better served if you remained at Hogwarts and assisted in the protection of the school."

"Of course, Albus," Flitwick replied, inclining his head.

And with that, Dumbledore beckoned to Sirius and they left the anteroom in haste, leaving the rest of them glancing at each other—the whole thing had occurred in a matter of moments, and there were still some rather shell-shocked people in the room.

"Very well, Mr. Potter," McGonagall finally said with a speculative look, "I believe we should speak of exactly what we need to do and the role your club will play in this drama."

Harry nodded. "First, I think we should have all the students return to the Great Hall and cancel classes for this afternoon."

McGonagall peered at him, before sighing in resignation. "I suppose you're right—we'll want everyone in one place if You-Know-Who does decide to pay us a visit."

"I need to get Hermione and Fleur involved—they know as much about this as I do. Can we place a table near the front of the room that we can use to plan?"

"Very well. We can discuss the specifics of what the club will do as we go along."

The announcement that there would be no classes that afternoon was met with somewhat less enthusiasm than Harry would have thought, though when he considered it he decided that it was preoccupation over present events, rather than lack of enthusiasm. The rest of the students who had departed were quickly rounded up, and a schedule of patrols was set up. Harry also made sure there were watchers stationed at the tops of the largest towers—to be rotated every hour—so they would have advance warning of any approaching threats. It was, as Dumbledore said, earlier than he would have hoped, but Harry was determined to ensure that the school would be kept safe.

* * *

Sirius hurried in Dumbledore's wake toward the Headmaster's office, wondering how a man as old as he was could possibly move so fast. Perhaps it was the secret of Dumbledore's longevity, though to be honest, the Headmaster's advanced years were not necessarily unusual for a wizard. Sirius could only hope that he was as spry when he reached the Headmaster's age. Or perhaps it was more correct to say that he hoped he would be able to reach the Headmaster's great age at all!

Once they had reached the gargoyle guard, Dumbledore slowed and he turned to Sirius as he commanded the statue to step aside. "I believe the Floo to be the best way to get to the Ministry. We can Floo directly into the Minister's office and join the battle after making certain that she has escaped."

Sirius nodded shortly and followed Dumbledore up the stairs into the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore proceeded directly to the Floo and, grasping a handful of Floo powder, yelled out, "Minister for Magic's office!"

The fireplace flared briefly before it settled into its normal glow, rather than the flames eagerly stretching forth to gather the traveler into its embrace. Startled, Sirius wondered if Dumbledore had gotten the location wrong, not that that seemed likely. A glance at his companion showed a rather worried Dumbledore.

"It appears the Floo system is down, Sirius," Dumbledore explained. "As Fawkes has still not matured enough to flame us there, we shall have to go by portkey. I have the authority to both create portkeys from Hogwarts, and to the Ministry, and though I cannot take us to the Minister's office by portkey, I can take us to the Atrium, which I believe would be the best location, given the circumstances."

"Wouldn't it be best to go to the Auror department?" Sirius asked

Dumbledore shook his head. "If the attack is of the magnitude that Kingsley's message suggested, I would expect there to be heavy fighting there. Hopefully the Atrium will be in our hands, or at the very least, we can portkey to a location which will allow us to catch our bearings without immediately coming under fire."

Reaching over to his desk, Dumbledore plucked a parchment off of the desk and, pointing his wand at it, intoned, "_Portus!_" The parchment glowed a light blue before the light disappeared. Then, Dumbledore summoned his Patronus with a flourish, speaking to it once the bright phoenix had appeared. "Go to Elphias Doge. The Ministry is under attack. Gather every member of the Order who can be spared."

He then turned to Sirius. "Take hold of this parchment, Sirius. It will take us to an anteroom off the Atrium. Hopefully, it will not be occupied, but I suggest we go with out wands out."

Nodding, Sirius grasped the parchment, and Dumbledore activated it. A moment later, Sirius landed on his feet in the small room and cast about warily for threats, relaxing only slightly when he confirmed the room to be empty. But the air was smoky and laced with the thick scent of charred wood, and from beyond the door—or the remaining shards of the door, which hung raggedly on creaking hinges—he could hear the shouts of curses and cries of pain, mixed with roars of anger and the din of an ongoing battle.

Motioning to Dumbledore, Sirius eased up to the door and peered around the edge carefully. They were at the far end of the Atrium from the lifts, the remains of the fountain which had still not been repaired sat on one side of the long room, while the Floos sat on the other. Nearer to their position, the phone booth entrance stood close to one wall, but it had taken heavy damage—the windows were smashed, the metal was blackened and somewhat warped in places, and the entire structure was leaning askew against a nearby wall. On the opposite end, near the lifts, a charred pile of ash eddied in the shifting currents where the security desk had once stood.

Closer to their side, several fighters, some in Auror uniforms, hunkered behind the dubious shelter of the fountain, the corner where the Floos were situated, or whatever makeshift shelter they had devised for protection, faced by a force of Death Eaters who had taken up position blocking off access to the lifts and the accompanying stairwells. Clearly it was an attempt to block any reinforcements from being able to reach other levels through the main entrance to the Ministry, and likely to block off the administrative section from all other parts of the Ministry. It was impossible to tell what was happening on the other floors, but here, matters seemed to have descended into a stalemate—the Death Eaters were content to hold their position, while the Ministry could not at present advance any further.

That, of course, begged the question: just what exactly was Voldemort attempting to accomplish with this assault? Was it an attempt to kill the Minister, or was he actually trying to take control of the Ministry? While controlling the Ministry building itself would be a serious blow for his attempt to assert his dominance, if Minister Bones were to escape, a resistance could still be mounted. And Sirius did not doubt that she would—at the very least, even if the entire Floo system was down, the Minister always carried an emergency portkey. Of course, having control over the various tools the Ministry used, the department of Mysteries, etc, would shift the nature of the struggle largely in Voldemort's favor. Whatever his goal consisted of, it was clear that he had thrown a large force at the Ministry in the attempt. Beating back the attack would be difficult and dangerous.

"What do you think?" Sirius asked Dumbledore, who had also taken in the situation. "Do we try to retake this floor, or can you create another portkey to take us closer to the Minister's office first?"

"First things first, Sirius," the ancient wizard replied. "The Minister should have been evacuated the moment the attack began, so there should be no reason to suspect that she is still here. Liberating the building must necessarily begin here—we can then make our way toward the higher floors."

Nodding, Sirius glanced once again out the open door, but the situation was much the same as it was before. The Department of Mysteries was perhaps another level which must be secured as soon as possible, but Sirius was certain they had other defenses and that they were likely as safe as any other department. Besides, as esoteric as the Unspeakables' studies were, it could not be a high priority target, unless there was something specific Voldemort wanted there. And since the prophecy was now gone, he could not think of anything else which would be of interest. Beyond the Department of Mysteries, level ten would be the lowest priority, as the courtrooms held nothing of value, and the cells below them held no one Voldemort would want to free.

"How do we do this then?"

"We must get in behind them and catch them in a crossfire," Dumbledore stated, and Sirius had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly _who_ would be volunteered for that dangerous job. "I will distract them," Dumbledore continued, "while you take the portkey, which I will reset to take you behind their position. You should be able to incapacitate several of them before they discover your position—enough for us to capture the rest of them."

"How did I know you were going to say that?" Sirius muttered, even as he nodded his head curtly in agreement. Taking a small piece of rubble from the floor, Dumbledore once again pointed his wand at it and cast the spell to create a portkey, before handing it to Sirius.

"The activation word is 'crossfire.' Give me a few moments to completely draw their attention before you activate it." Dumbledore smiled slightly. "But do not wait too long, as I do not fancy being the target of every spell from every Death Eater out there."

Sirius just held himself back from mentioning the hubris that such a statement betrayed before nodding and pulling back from the door. The Headmaster appeared to center himself for a brief moment before he calmly stepped out of the concealment of the room and into the atrium.

The effect was instantaneous. A cry went up from the Death Eaters and the wands of almost every one of the attacking force was suddenly trained upon Dumbledore. When the spells began flying, the defenders suddenly became aware of the fact that they were no longer being targeted by their enemies, and as soon as they became aware of the fact that it was the famed defeater of Grindlewald who had joined the fray, a cheer—much the opposite of the Death Eaters' response—rose to meet his appearance. A new vigor seemed to enter them and they turned their attention back to the attackers, peppering them with a withering hail of spellfire.

Now, considering that for a few moments Dumbledore had been the sole target of what appeared to be more than a dozen Death Eaters, one would have thought that he would have been overwhelmed by the myriad of spells arrayed against him. But nothing could be further from the truth. The Headmaster's wand was a blur as he cast; shields, conjurations, summons—a plethora of defensive spells met the barrage and with a little fancy footwork to go with his defensive spellwork, bombardment curses, slashing curses, and even a couple of killing curses were either deflected or intercepted. He even managed a couple of offensive spells, which forced the Death Eaters to hunker back down into their defensive positions, bits of stone and tile filling the air in frenzied patterns as spell exploded against the walls and floors of the room. Dumbledore's casting was the single most incredible sight Sirius had ever seen, and he almost forgot to use the portkey, so great was his awe.

As the Ministry defenders once again began returning fire, the hail of offensive fire from the attackers died down, allowing Dumbledore to go on the offensive, and it was at that moment that Sirius had the presence of mind to activate his portkey.

Sirius materialized in the Ministry Munchies café only a few seconds later. Peering around, he noted the fact that the café had taken heavy damage—tables had been knocked over, or completely blown apart, the long counter with its various cooking appliances and the like were smashed beyond recognition, and Sirius was unsurprised to see that there was not a window intact in the entire structure. The most disquieting fact was that there were several bodies lying upon the floor, most with the telltale signs of the killing curse upon them. These people had been brutally cut down with no quarter while eating lunch.

Ignoring the carnage as best he could—and perversely grateful that, for the most part, the killing had been done quickly and without an excessive level of gore—Sirius crept through the diner as quietly as he could, reaching the door in a matter of seconds. Crouching down behind the low wall, he peered around the corning, noting the Death Eaters defending the lifts and stairwell. Most were not dressed in the standard Death Eater garb of long black cloak and silver mask, instead using a more versatile uniform—if it could be called that—of black slacks over black shirts. Fortunately, most were clearly within his sights, and clearly were focused out into the atrium, likely more on the Headmaster than anything else.

Knowing that his situation could become untenable very quickly should they discover his presence, Sirius immediately went on the offensive, choosing spells which would incapacitate them at the very least. He quickly reeled off two bludgeoning curses and a cutting curse at the nearest Death Eaters, the first striking the closest man and sending him tumbling down the stairs, while the second blew its target out onto the floor and the third opened up a large gash on the final man's neck, causing him to slump to the floor, his life's blood flowing out through the gash. Sirius then followed it up with a quickly cast "_Confrigo!_" and another blasting curse between two Death Eaters stationed nearer to the end of the lifts. The first sent the man careening into another Death Eater, bringing them both down, while the second impacted between the two men, showering them both with pieces of rock and debris.

That was when the remaining Death Eaters realized that they had an opponent situated at the rear of their position. Two of them turned back and began pelting the wall between them and Sirius with quickly cast Reductors and blasting curses, clearly trying to batter their way through the wall and remove Sirius's cover from the equation, where they could pick him off at their leisure. It was at that point that above the din, Sirius would hear the sudden cries and yells of the Ministry defenders, and when he peaked out from behind his cover, he saw them rushing the remaining attackers, overwhelming them within a matter of moments.

With relief, Sirius sagged behind what remained of the wall, thankful that Dumbledore's plan had worked as well as it had.

"Take these men into custody," Dumbledore's voice floated back to him as the Headmaster approached, wand in hand.

Sirius stood and surveyed the scene. Of the four men who were left, one had obviously been hit by several curses and his form was bloodied and battered; he looked like a hopeless case. The other three were all in better shape, it appeared, though they had been bound in ropes and stunned for good measure. Several of those who had been fighting for the Ministry were now looking over the men that Sirius had dealt with, going over their bodies, stunning and binding those who appeared like they were not seriously injured, while offering some simple treatment for those who looked the worse for wear.

"Are you aware of the situation on the floors above us?" Dumbledore was asking one of the men in Auror uniforms.

"I was just arriving when they struck," the man replied. "I'm not sure there is a normal procedure for this, but I would think that Scrimgeour would have called in the off duty hit wizards and Aurors."

"Even if he did, they have no way to arrive. The Floo system is down."

"Which means that they have control over the Department of Magical Transportation," another added.

"Dumbledore!" a voice spoke up from the direction of the phone booth.

Both Dumbledore and Sirius turned to the sound of the voice—which was very familiar to Sirius—and saw Remus approaching with Tonks, whose hair was almost a midnight blue in color. In the heat of the battle and the thick, smoky haze which hung over the room like a blanket, Sirius had not noticed them.

"Remus!" Sirius exclaimed. "When did you get back?"

"In the middle of all this," Remus replied, gesturing to the havoc around them.

"Then you found something?" Sirius asked, his hopes rising suddenly. He had not allowed himself to consider the Horcrux much since Remus had left, but it had been in the back of his mind almost constantly.

"We did," Remus confirmed with a grim expression which did nothing to reassure Sirius. "But now is not the time to go into detail."

Nodding, Sirius looked to Dumbledore. The Headmaster was considering Remus and Tonks, but seemed to come to the same conclusion at the same time Remus had declared that it was a matter to take up at another time.

"I expect that the fighting is heavier the further we proceed toward the Administration offices," Dumbledore said, getting down to business immediately. "We will have to make our way up to the higher levels one at a time and assess the situation on each level as we go. Since they have shut down the Floos and attempted to prevent incursion from the atrium, I suspect that this is an effort to take control of the Ministry. If that is so, then their main objectives would have been levels one, two and six."

"They'd have to be crazy to try a frontal attack against the Auror office," one of the Aurors disagreed.

"On the contrary," Sirius interjected, "if they wanted to take control of the Ministry, then they'd have had to put the Auror office out of the fight immediately."

"But how would they do it?"

"How did they arrive in the first place?"

A picture quickly emerged of Death Eaters suddenly appearing in the atrium at various points, though fortunately in mid morning when the place was not nearly as busy as it might have been early in the morning or at midday. They quickly caused as much havoc as possible, cutting down any who stood in their path, until a determined counter attack from the security office, aided by a few bystanders who had survived the original carnage, had driven them back to the lifts where they had been content to defend the access to the other levels, likely waiting until resistance had been subdued there and they could mop up at their leisure with reinforcements from other levels. It had been during the middle of this battle—and several minutes after the flight of those who had been able to flee through the phone booth—that Remus and Tonks had arrived on the scene, walking into a battle zone as nothing had appeared to be amiss from the street above. Though it had seemed like ages to the defenders, in reality, it only a little more than a quarter of an hour since the Death Eaters had begun the attack.

"Very well," Dumbledore said when the quick explanations were made. "We must fight our way to the upper levels." He took each one of those around him in a quick gazed and continued, "Our main objective must be to make certain that the Minister was able to depart and, if she has not, then to rescue her if she is still in the building."

A grim round of nods met his declaration and the force immediately started for the entrance to the other levels. The fighting was far from over.

* * *

"How were your studies this morning, Gabrielle?" Apolline asked her youngest daughter.

"Well, Maman," Gabrielle replied with childish excitement, though she remembered to swallow her bite of food before she ran away with her reply. "Today I studied my first year Transfiguration texts, and I plan to look over my Defense books later!"

Apolline smiled indulgently at the girl and turned back to her own lunch, with Gabrielle's excited chatter in the background. Gabrielle was bright and inquisitive, and she soaked up every bit of information she could get her hands on, though Transfiguration was her favorite. Defense had become a recent passion, entirely, Apolline suspected, since it had been revealed that it was Harry's favorite subject. The Delacours had always insisted that their children obtain a well-rounded education, but sometimes Gabrielle would use any excuse to avoid some of the basic subjects in order to pore over her magical texts. It was a great measure of disappointment for the young girl that she would not be attending Beauxbatons—the Delacours still intended to send their youngest child to the school in the land of her birth, rather than Hogwarts—until the following year, as she was to turn ten in just over a month.

"I am happy to hear it. This afternoon, I believe we should focus on math, and some language studies."

Gabrielle frowned a little, but she acquiesced readily, prompting a fond smile from Apolline. She may prefer the pure magical studies, but Gabrielle was truly an easy student. She did not enjoy math to any great degree, but she picked the concepts up well enough. She was also writing at a greater level than her age would suggest, a necessity, Apolline thought, as the magical schools did not teach basic writing skills—she would need to have already developed the necessary skills to a certain extent before she left to attend school.

Unlike most other magical parents, the Delacours had also insisted upon a basic education of the world around them, which included some simple sciences, the history of their homeland and the world around it, and whatever else their children took an interest in. Thus, both of her children possessed a knowledge of the world around them which was far greater than their peers, and as a testament to their willingness to apply themselves in what magical society would consider to be odd disciplines, both of their daughters had an interest in certain arts. Gabrielle was skilled at drawing—for a nine-year-old—and her elder sister Fleur was quite proficient on the piano.

It would be a lonely house once Gabrielle left to attend Beauxbatons, Apolline thought a trifle sadly. It had been hard enough to let go of Fleur when she had left for school, but Gabrielle was the baby; Apolline knew it would be immeasurably more difficult to send her youngest off to the boarding school for more than nine months of the year.

She needed an occupation once Gabrielle left the nest, Apolline decided. As the wife of a prominent and affluent wizard, they had house-elves who took care of the cooking and cleaning, so she would not have those duties to fill her time, and she had focused her time over the past eighteen years raising her children, not agreeing with the idea of leaving them to nanny elves, or even human caretakers, unlike many in her social sphere. Therefore, she had no true occupation, other than raising her children and running to household to whatever degree was necessary.

Perhaps there was some duty Madam Maxine required at Beauxbatons. That would be beneficial from the standpoint of being close to her youngest daughter. She could Floo home at the end of the day to be with her husband. A job at the Ministry in France might be another possibility. Jean-Sebastian would be more aware of what was available or required.

They had almost finished lunch—and Apolline had been on the verge of sending Gabrielle for her math and language books—when a loud keening wail filled the room. Apolline looked up with dread—it was the warning the wards made when they were under assault.

An Auror burst into the room with a wild, frightened look on his face. "The wards are under assault by a group of Death Eaters!" he exclaimed.

"The Floo in my husband's study!" Apolline cried, pulling Gabrielle to her feet. "We must make it there before the wards fall!"  
The Auror turned and immediately headed toward the door, leading the way toward the study and escape, and Apolline cursed herself for being all kinds of a fool—she had left her emergency portkey in her office that morning. In truth, she had felt an apparently false sense of security, feeling that Voldemort was not yet audacious enough to assault the residence of a foreign official. Apparently she was wrong.

They had just exited the small dining nook when another sound, even more dreadful, rang through their ears—it was the sound of something breaking, not unlike that of breaking glass.

"How could the wards have fallen so quickly?" she demanded to no one in particular. In her mind she was furiously considering the situation as they ran toward the study. Could the wards have been compromised somehow to ensure their quick failure?

They had gone a few doors down when another Auror emerged from another doorway, his eyes filled with fear. "Lord Voldemort himself is here!" he exclaimed.

"Then move!" Apolline cried, not wanting to think what was in store for her daughter should they fall into Voldemort's hands.

They literally sprinted down the hall toward the study, fearing that they would suddenly be assaulted by Death Eaters every step of the way. As it was, they managed to make it down the hallway and to the stairs which led to the second floor before they were interrupted.

A shout met their escape, and a force of Death Eaters emerged from a side corridor which led to the main entrance. Curses were immediately unleashed, and one of the Aurors escorting them was blasted back against the wall behind them. The other returned fire and put one of the Death Eaters out of the fight with a well-placed cutting hex. Acting on instinct, Apolline pushed Gabrielle toward the stairs, urging her to get to the Floo, before she turned and faced the Death Eaters.

She immediately let go of her form and changed into her bird form, throwing the two fireballs which appeared in her hands, one splashing against the wall next to the Death Eaters, while the other took one of the attackers directly in the chest. Instantly, he became a human torch, flailing this way and that, trying to put out the flames. The unfortunate man provided just the distraction Apolline was intending, as those close to him moved frantically to get out of the way of his burning form.

As Apolline shifted back into her human form, she turned to flee, but not before the snake-like visage of Lord Voldemort appeared behind the death Eaters, peering at her coldly. She ran up the stairs, almost losing her footing as the marble banister exploded courtesy of an exploding curse which would surely have killed her if it had hit its mark.

Scrambling to get away, Apolline hurried up the stairs, hearing the death cry of the second Auror who had undoubtedly thrown himself in Voldemort's way to allow her a few more precious seconds to escape. Idly, as she was running, she wondered what had happened to the rest of their protection detail. Perhaps they had been engaged by another force of Death Eaters and prevented from coming to their aid.

Knowing she had only seconds to escape, Apolline put such thoughts from her mind. She gained the top of the stairs and sprinted the short distance to Jean-Sebastian's study, catching up with Gabrielle, who had hesitated at the top of the stairs. "We must go!'" she cried, galvanizing Gabrielle into action.

Apolline threw open the study door and hurried toward the Floo, only to have her escape blocked by one of the French Aurors tasked with guarding the manor.

"I am afraid I cannot allow you to escape, Madam Delacour," the man said with a chilling smile, while training his wand on them both.

Without even thinking, Apolline instantly transformed, and pushing Gabrielle from the line of fire, she once again cast a fireball at the man. He was not caught off guard by her action, however, as he stepped to the side, and allowed the fireball to splash against Jean-Sebastian's desk, setting it ablaze. He returned fire with a bludgeoning curse which caught Apolline on one hip. She shrugged it off, knowing her bird form could absorb a considerable amount of damage, and charged the man, raking him across the face with extended talons, and backhanding him, sending him flying over the burning desk, to impact heavily with the wall in behind.

"The Floo, Gabrielle," Apolline cried as she resumed her human form. Gabrielle jumped to the Floo quickly and stepped in immediately, while Apolline moved to follow, favoring her side as the effects of the curse now made themselves known to her human form. She tossed the powder in and whispered the destination—not wanting anyone who followed to know where she had gone—as a shadow crossed the door behind her. She glanced back as she stepped into the flames and saw Voldemort enter the room.

"Not today, Voldemort," she spat as the flames enveloped her.

She stumbled coming out of the Floo on the other side, landing heavily on the floor. Gabrielle fell to her knees beside Apolline, holding her and crying, while Apolline called out, "Matty!"

The house-elf appeared in an instant, aghast at what he was seeing before him. "Lock down the Floo!" Apolline commanded quickly.

Matty waved his hand and the Floo immediately went on lockdown. Apolline slumped to the floor in sudden exhaustion while Matty, aided by several other house-elves who had appeared immediately after, rushed to her and began to busy themselves in seeing to her aid.

"Mistress, where is the master?" Matty asked, pulling his ears in distress."

"He was at the Ministry this morning," Apolline replied wearily. She turned with an effort and wrapped her arms around a crying Gabrielle. "We are fine, little one," she cooed, while caressing her back in a soothing manner.

"But Maman!" Gabrielle wailed with tears streaming down her face. "Where are Papa and Fleur? And where's Harry?"

"Hush, Gabrielle. Your father is at the Ministry, meeting with Madam Bones, and Fleur is safe at Hogwarts. And Harry is there protecting her, remember?"

Gabrielle calmed visibly at this reassurance, and she even managed a watery smile in response. Apolline, knowing that she needed to get word to someone of the attack, painfully moved to the Floo. "Matty, get me the Floo powder."

When the small urn was delivered, Apolline knelt by the fire and, throwing in a handful of the power said, "The French Minister for magic," before leaning into the flames.

Through the fire her line of sight was transported to the Minister's office. The Minister looked up with a start and he immediately stood and approached. "Apolline? What has happened?"

"The manor was attacked," Apolline managed. "We only just managed to escape."

"Jean-Sebastian?" the Minister asked with a brow furrowed in worry.

"He was at the British Ministry this morning," Apolline said, while gasping a little at the fire of pain which was radiating from her side.

"You are hurt. I will send a team of Aurors immediately along with a healer."

"Please contact Jean-Sebastian," Apolline insisted. "Voldemort himself attacked us. If he returns while Voldemort is still there…"

"I will take care of it," the Minister promised. "Just stay put for a few moments while I make the necessary arrangements."

"You'll also want to disconnect our Floo connection at the manor from the rest of the network."

"I will see it done immediately," the Minister promised.

With a relieved nod, Apolline cut the connection and allowed herself to slump to the floor. Her daughter moved to intercept her and coaxed Apolline to lay her head down on her lap. Wearily, she smiled up at Gabrielle, reaching up to touch her face with a loving hand.

"Do not worry, my darling. All will be well."

* * *

At Hogwarts, the mood was tense while they waited for word from the Ministry. But though one might have expected that the absence of the Headmaster would invite attack, regardless of the fact that the wards were renown the world over, the school was calm and nothing appeared to threaten those within.

That did not mean that they were not busy. The moment Dumbledore and Sirius had left the Great Hall, those remaining had sprung into action. Harry immediately took charge of the situation, calling the members of the Defense Association forward, and while he consulted with Professor McGonagall, their rough plan for patrolling the corridors beginning to shape into an actual set of assignments. In short order, Harry had watchers dispatched to the tops of each of the towers, and a patrol rotation set up for the various corridors of the castle. In addition, defenders were set up at the various entrances to the castle, particularly the viaduct entrance and the clock tower courtyard, next to the covered bridge.

It thrilled Fleur to see Harry take charge of the situation, an impression which appeared to be shared by Hermione, among others, including, it seemed, Professor McGonagall who was in overall charge of the castle with the Headmaster gone. The professor was content mostly to allow Harry to run the show as far as the association was concerned, though she did voice her opinion here and there, guiding Harry toward things that he had perhaps not considered, tightening the defense of the castle. She had, after all, lived through the first war with Voldemort, and had already been the Deputy Headmistress at that time, so she would have had a certain amount of familiarity with this exact situation during that conflict as well.

For the most part, the remaining students appeared to accept what was happening with calmness, and there was little complaining with the instructions given to them. Part of this may have been the fact that classes were cancelled for the afternoon, but Fleur suspected that most were impressed with Harry's performance. Even the Slytherins—or what was left of the Death Eater Children—were quiet and sat talking in low voices amongst themselves. Harry had set up watchers to keep an eye on the Slytherins in case they should try something, but thus far it had seemed to be unnecessary.

The only person who made trouble was the esteemed Head Boy, who, it seemed, thought he should be taking Harry's place in coordinating the patrols, with prefects performing that task, rather than association members. He was disabused of that notion rather quickly by the Deputy Headmistress.

"Thank you, Potter, for being so… eager," Roger said as he approached the table the house-elves had moved to the front of the Hall for their use. He skewered Harry with an unmistakable sneer which clearly displayed his contempt for Harry and his abilities. "But I think I can take it from here."

Harry glanced at Roger, before shrugging and turning his attention back toward Fleur and Hermione, and the troop leaders who had gathered around the table to receive their instructions.

"Didn't you hear me, Potter?" Roger then demanded, apparently quite put out that he was being ignored. "Run along like a good little fifth year. I'll call you when I assign you your patrol."

"Oh, I heard you, Roger," Harry replied without turning. "But Dumbledore put me in charge of patrolling the castle in his absence, so what you want really doesn't matter much."

Fleur, who was standing on the opposite side of the table from Harry, immediately noted the way Roger flushed at being dismissed so summarily. His wand hand twitched as though he was considering hexing Harry from behind, when the voice of the Headmistress brought him up short.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Davies?"

"The Head students and prefects should be responsible for this, not Potter," Roger angrily stated.

"Professor Dumbledore decided that Mr. Potter should take the lead in this situation. His work with the club and the training that the club members have received make them ideal for this task."

"But—" Roger started, only to be cut off by McGonagall.

"I am sorry, Mr. Davies, but we need to see to the patrol rotation. If you have a problem with the Headmaster's decision, I suggest you take it up with him when he returns."

It was a dismissal plain and simple, and though Roger's countenance darkened significantly, he could do nothing but stalk back to the Ravenclaw table and flop down on the bench heavily, though once he sat, his glare never left Harry. Fleur understood his point to a certain extent—the Head students _had_ likely been the ones in charge of such a situation during the last war. But Harry's emergence as a leader and the work he had done with the club had changed the situation materially. It only made sense for Dumbledore to put him in charge.

Now more than an hour into the Headmaster's absence, they were basically doing little more than taking reports from the various association members, and waiting for word to arrive. Of course, it was then, when Fleur was not occupied with other thoughts, that her mind defaulted back to what had been absorbing her attention since the previous day—the state of her relationship with Harry, and his relationship with Hermione.

To be honest, Fleur was not certain what had come over her. Her abilities confirmed what she had known all along—Harry had loved Hermione as more than a friend for quite some times. These same abilities were also telling her that Harry loved her, and the thought was comforting and thrilling at the same time. Certainly the toe-curling kiss they had shared before entering the hall for lunch had been an indication—a physical one albeit—that Harry felt very strongly for her indeed.

But the meeting of the heart and the head was not always perfect, and since the events of the previous day, Fleur had felt doubt entering her very being, and it had taken most of a sleepless night to determine exactly what it was that was bothering her. And what she had finally been able to determine was that she was afraid that Harry loved Hermione with a deep abiding love, one which she would never hope to achieve with him herself.

Hermione _had_ the past five years of constant companionship as a foundation of their feelings for one another, after all. What did Fleur have? They had only even _been acquainted_ with one another for the past year and a half, and only that until the previous summer when they had been suddenly thrust into this marriage contract with no advance warning. It was actually surprising that they had managed to gain the level of emotional connection they had, considering the beginnings of their acquaintance. But though her heart argued that Harry loved her, her head noted that he did not love her with the depth and passion he loved Hermione. And that was the crux of the matter—would Fleur forever be second in Harry's heart?

Fleur had no answers, and for the first time she had begun to regret the offer she had made so precipitously to Hermione the previous August. Without her encouragement, Harry might never have felt anything more than the love of a friend, or the nostalgia of feeling that she might have been a girl with whom he could have been happy. Now she was stuck with this situation and she was not certain what she could do about it.

But she had known the situation and had specifically chosen it, because she had felt guilty that she had been the means of separating them when she could sense the devotion they had for one another. It was ironic that she was now so afraid of what she had known all along. But what had seemed like it would not be such a bad thing—having a portion of her husband's heart rather than have him resent her for being the means by which he was separated from his true love—now seemed to be something which might end up haunting her. After all, knowing now what it could be to be loved by Harry in actuality was quite different from what she had imagined. She now knew that it would be a great hardship to never have the love that he already shared with another.

Still, there was nothing for it. She would need to keep her feelings firmly reined in, and work her way through her troubles herself. It was still early in their relationship, after all, and it was still possible that it would all work itself out to her satisfaction. At least she hoped so. The prospect of spending her entire life second in Harry's heart to another was now not one she wished to contemplate.

* * *

The work of pushing through the Ministry toward the upper levels was arduous, and consumed far more time than the rescue team would have hoped. Voldemort appeared to have thrown the entirety of his strength at the Ministry in attempt to topple the government as quickly as possible. As they made their way up the stairs, they found the same situation played out on floor after floor—Ministry workers taken by surprise, lying in the hallways, injured or dead. Those who had survived the initial assault were hunkered down in different rooms or cubicles, fighting desperately to keep the Death Eater forces at bay. The carnage was awful and the devastation substantial and it only became worse the further they progressed up toward the Ministry administration offices. It quickly became clear the casualties were of such a significant number that the entire Ministry would be seriously undermanned for the foreseeable future. That was assuming they were able to beat back the attack at all.

As they went, they surprised the Death Eaters assaulting the building, as they had obviously expected that their forces had gained control over the lower levels to prevent any relief from arriving in that direction. The fights with these groups of Death Eaters were short and brutal, with no quarter offered or given. Finding themselves caught between the opposing forces, many immediately activated portkeys and fled the scene, rather than be annihilated, which in itself revealed another troubling circumstance. Portkeys to or from the Ministry building could only be authorized by Department Heads and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and yet these men were using them. This brought a whole new and troubling dimension to the attack, and one which Albus felt he would have to think about more when the opportunity presented itself.

As they came closer to the second level housing the Auror offices, the fighting became even fiercer, as the Death Eaters were more concentrated toward the Auror office, and consisted of those of much better training and competence. But the team Albus led into the upper portions of the building had also been reinforced by Order members who had answered the call by Elphias Doge, as well and a large force of off duty Aurors—apparently Scrimgeour had managed to get a message out. But until the phone booth had been put back into operation—a detail had staying in the Atrium for that purpose—there had been no way for them to access the building.

But when they finally reached the second level, they were met by a force of Aurors led by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Alastor Moody.

"Albus!" Moody greeted them as they met near the stairs. "It's about bloody time you showed up."

"Hello, Alastor," Dumbledore greeted the cantankerous Auror. As an acquaintance of many years, Albus was used to Moody's ways. "What is the situation?"

"We've managed to beat the Death Eaters back, but all attempts to gain access to the first level have failed," Moody replied.

"Albus, they are using portkeys, and we couldn't get any of ours to work. With the Floo down as well, the Minister must still be in her office."

It was a further level of complexity. If the Death Eater forces had discovered some way of circumventing portkey wards, both in creating portkeys to bypass existing wards, and denying previously authorized portkeys, then that was a very serious situation indeed, and it put into question the wards around Hogwarts as well. The only reason why Albus did not turn on the spot and return to Hogwarts was because he trusted those left at the school to inform him if anything should happen. Regardless, he would need to go back very soon…

"Where is Director Scrimgeour?" Albus queried.

"Dead. He tried to portkey up to the first level and the results were… messy. We've been trying to figure out how to get up there—the Death Eaters hold the top of the stairs in force."

Albus thought about it for a moment, before he turned to Alastor. "I believe I can assist in that, Alastor." He turned to Shacklebolt. "Prepare your men for an assault. I will clear the way and allow access to the next level."

Alastor merely nodded and turned away, beginning to bark out instructions, though some of the others gave Albus disbelieving glances.

"What do you plan to do?" Sirius asked, as he sidled up to Albus's side.

"What I must," Albus replied with a significant glance. Clearly Sirius was more than a little concerned at this less than satisfactory response, but he said nothing further, merely nodding his head and turning back to Remus. The grim expressions were rampant in the surrounding fighters; no one quite knew what they would discover when they reached the next level, but it was certain it would not be pretty.

Focusing on what must be done, Albus motioned Alastor to approach.

"Alastor, have a look up with your eye. What do you see?"

Somewhat disconcertingly, Alastor's magical eye rolled up in his head, though the man did not turn away from Albus. "The Death Eaters have approximately two score men guarding the stairs, most with wands out, ready for action. Further away, I can see several in a firefight with some others, but beyond that, I cannot tell—they are out of range of this eye."

"That will do," Albus replied. "Are your men ready to move?"

"Aye, Albus," was Alastor's gruff response. "I hope you have something up your sleeve. Those men have the higher ground—it will be a bloodbath if we charge up the stairs at them they way they are now."

"I shall attempt to encourage as many as possible away from the stairs as I can," Albus said with a wry smile. "Just be prepared to move."

At Alastor's nod, he—and Shacklebolt, who had been standing listening to the exchange—moved back and prepared the men for the final assault, leaving Albus to consider his options. It would take something of rather a lot of power, with enough flashiness to force the men away from the stairs. It was also necessary to ensure that not too much damage was done to the surrounding structure—it was not much good to deal with the Death Eaters guarding the doors while causing the entire stairwell to collapse.

Deciding on his strategy, Albus turned back to Shacklebolt and Moody, motioning them close. "I will have to get closer to them to be able to act. Wait down just out of sight, and when you hear me cast, begin your assault." He gazed at both of them sternly. "I hardly think I need to tell you that you will need to be quick—I will only be able to do this once, so we must make it count."

Both men nodded at him and Albus disillusioned himself, cast cushioning charms on his feet, before beginning to make his way carefully up the stairs. He stopped part way up to the first landing, as a spell splashed against the wall and dissipated. The Death Eaters were using revealing spells periodically to detect anyone who was attempting to do exactly what Albus was doing. He would have to be extremely cautious.

A step before he reached the landing, Albus halted, and he began the long and complicated incantation of the spell he had decided to use. As a young man, Albus had had an insatiable desire to learn, and one of the things he had explored was the magic of other lands. It was where he had come across his first reference to Horcruxes, and had learned from where they had originated, though he had never wanted to learn any more of them. He had travelled the world studying the magics of other cultures, and had returned to Britain after that, armed with the knowledge of many esoteric spells, many of which seemed to have little to no use.

As a people, the wizards of India had a certain affinity for fire, which was ironic, considering their other affinity was for snakes. With this ability to do fire magic, they had developed many spells which utilized this element, some more useful than others. When he had journeyed through that country as a young man, he had come across the spell he was about to attempt. Roughly translated, it meant 'fiery orb of flame,' and it resembled the balls of flame Veela could command when transformed into their bird forms, though it was much more powerful.

A moment before Albus completed the incantation, he stepped up that final step and, turning and training his wand toward the opening at the top of the massive stairwell, he unleashed the spell.

To say that Albus was surprised was an understatement. He had never actually seen the spell cast, though he had heard tales of its prowess. It required a truly powerful wizard to cast, and in the instant after he had cast it, with the resulting power drain, he could understand why. It was almost more like a wall of flame and from the moment it emerged from his wand, it roared up the stairs in a fury, its power rivaling that of fiendfyre, though it did not posses the malevolent sort of intelligence of the cursed fire. The men at the top of the stairs had only an instant warning before they were engulfed in the eldritch flames, and the two Albus could see from his position were incinerated almost before they could move.

Screams erupted from the area beyond the stairwell, and as Albus caught his breath, he heard the sounds of running feet approaching, as the Ministry forces took that as their cue to begin the assault. Having the presence of mind to cancel his disillusionment spell before he was trampled, Dumbledore sagged against the banister, allowing the Aurors to move to the top of the stairs while he recovered.

From there it was almost anticlimactic. Most of the Death Eaters guarding the stairwell had been incapacitated or killed in the first rush of the wall of flame, and those who remained unharmed, quickly activated their portkeys, fleeing the scene. As the Ministry forces poured out onto the floor, they began fanning out to the various offices, intent upon vengeance against those who had wreaked such destruction upon the Ministry that day.

Though Albus would have liked nothing more than to seek the comfort of his bed after casting such a tiring spell, he pushed himself up the stairs and into the Ministry administration offices, lamenting the lack of a pepper-up potion.

What greeted him was expected, but no less shocking nonetheless. The administrative offices were in ruins. Doors lay smashed to kindling, great rents dotted the stonework while the floor was littered with rubble, and the count of bodies was greater than Albus had hoped. Regardless of how the day would ultimately turn out, there was no doubt that the Ministry had paid a high price to Voldemort's forces this day. Victory or defeat, it would be a monumental effort to restore the spirits of the populace after the destruction and death Voldemort had wrought.

As they pushed through the offices coming closer to the Minister's offices, the resistance of Voldemort's forces dwindled. The mere sight of a large force of Aurors, led by Shacklebolt and supported by the intimidating sight of Alastor Moody and accompanied by himself, if Dumbledore was not being too proud, induced them to flight—the battle was clearly lost.

When they had finally reached the Minister's office, they found the large Mahogany doors and the entire wall to have suffered heavy damage, but they were still intact and holding despite all which had been done to breach them. Whatever else had happened, it appeared that Minister Bones had managed to keep Voldemort's forces at bay while she awaited the rescue. It was only a few moments later when the doors were opened, and Madam Bones, together with Jean-Sebastian Delacour, and two Aurors, emerged from the office. Never had Albus felt so elated to see someone. They had held the day.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Well, there it is. There will be a few more sections in the next chapter which deal with some of what happened during the attacks—as well as some of the other locations which were also part of the festivities—but the main arc of this attack is over. Further explanations of why portkeys did or did not work, as well as some of the other things which happened will also be following in the ensuing chapters.

2. Also, you now know the reason why Fleur was acting somewhat funny. As I said to several of you in PM's, the pendulum had swung toward Hermione, and Fleur is now feeling the effects. There is some work to do before they achieve equilibrium. More on that to follow...

3. I'm getting pretty excited because the first part of the big reveal on Horcruxes is coming up. Some things need to happen in advance, though, so we're still a few chapters away. I also am just about to finish writing the second half of the Horcrux expose. I'm extremely curious as to what the reactions will be!


	54. Chapter 53 – Bent—Not Broken

**Previously: **Harry and his friends are in the Great Hall when a patronus arrives, telling them of the attack on the Ministry. Dumbledore and Sirius leave to attempt to fight the attack off, running into a firefight in the atrium. They meet Remus and Tonks who have returned from Egypt. Apolline and Gabrielle are attack at the Ambassador's Manor by a group of Death Eaters led by Voldemort. They just manage to escape. The Ministry forces, led by Dumbledore, fight their way to the Administration level, breaking the attack. The Death Eaters portkey away.

* * *

**Chapter 53 – Bent**—**Not Broken**

The day started out as any normal day for Jean-Sebastian. Breakfast with his wife and youngest daughter, had been followed by a quick conference with the French Minister, and then he Flooed to the British Ministry to meet with the Minister. It was an ordinary Monday, regardless of what it had turned into later.

As much as Jean-Sebastian had personally loathed Cornelius Fudge and decried the man's head-in-the-sand attitude, no one was more relieved that he was now out of office, and if he was to be honest with himself, Jean-Sebastian did not even feel much sorrow over the former Minister's ultimate fate. Perhaps it was beneath him to feel this way, though he did not take any overt enjoyment over the fact that the man was now dead, but the fact of the matter was that Fudge had been endangering countless lives with his policies. It was better for the rest of the country—and arguably the world—that he was now gone. It was better that he was dead than to continue to lead the British Wizarding world astray.

By contrast, Minister Bones was a breath of fresh air when compared to the stodgy, ever-proper, but ever-bumbling Fudge. It had been clear within minutes of first meeting Amelia Bones that she was a woman of action, one who backed up her words with immediate deeds, rather than with empty platitudes which she did not intend to keep. And thus far the Ministry under her leadership had made a substantial change, though more was ultimately needed—one did not alter an organization of such complexity as a national government overnight, after all, and there were still many who fulfilled the kind of "yes man" roles which Fudge had so adored in positions of power. But the changes were being made, and the country slowly was being put back on the right course.

Thus it was that Jean-Sebastian made his way to the Ministry that morning through the public Floos and then up the lifts to the administration area, to be ushered in to meet with the Minister. The subject was the possibility of British/French cooperation in opposing Voldemort's forces.

They exchanged pleasantries and soon were speaking of the subject at hand. However, they had been speaking of the matter for merely half an hour when they were interrupted by a pair of Aurors who burst into the room unannounced.

"Minister, the building is under attack!" one of the Aurors exclaimed when the Minister rose to demand the reason for the intrusion. "We must get you to a secure location."

"Under attack?" Madam Bones gasped. "Who?"

To the Auror's credit, he ignored any overt response to such an obvious question. "Death Eaters," the man replied as he hustled around the desk and pulled her toward the Floo.

"I will not flee, Peterson," Bones stated as she tried to pull her arm from his grasp. "I must coordinate the defense."

"With all due respect, Madam Minister," Jean-Sebastian interjected, rising to his feet, "I believe you are thinking like the Director of Magical Law Enforcement rather than the Minister. You are the head of this government. You must be kept safe to continue to lead Britain if the Ministry should fall."

Madam Bones gazed at him for a moment before tightly nodding her understanding. "As much as I wish it were not so, you are correct, Ambassador. I believe it would be best if you were to accompany me."

"Of course."

Quickly the Aurors escorted her to the Floo and one grasped a handful of powder and stated, "Minister's Retreat!" But though the powder induced slight flaring of the green fire, there was no other response.

"They've taken the Floo system down!" Madam Bones cried. "Here—hold on to me and I will activate my emergency portkey." The three men drew closer, but when the Minister touched her wand to the necklace around her neck, once again nothing happened.

Outside the door, shouts and screams began to echo through the halls, while curses and the sounds of spellfire began to approach the Minister's office.

"We must defend the Minister," Jean-Sebastian yelled, and he moved to the door in the company of one of the Aurors, while the other took up position in between Madam Bones and the door.

"Hold them off for a few seconds while I activate the defenses of this office!"

Jean-Sebastian eased the door open, intent upon seeing the situation out in the hallways. It was a mess of bodies, a scrambling mass of workers screaming in fright, fleeing this way and that, trying to escape the onslaught of the approaching Death Eaters. In the distance, but rapidly approaching the office, Jean-Sebastian could see the approaching attackers as they fired into the fleeing workers indiscriminately, while making their way toward the Minister's office, obviously their main objective.

Slowly, Jean-Sebastian began to ease the door closed again. "Minister?" he asked

"Step back from the door, Jean-Sebastian," the Minister directed.

Jean-Sebastian did as she asked and turned to watch her. Minister Bones was hunched over a small orb, which appeared to be made of some sort of crystal, but which was covered with runes of all sorts. She gingerly touched a single rune on the top of the orb, which glowed bright blue, and then she touched another around the side. The orb flared brightly for a moment before it faded to a soft gentle light. There was no visible change in the room, or in the door behind him, however, and Jean-Sebastian turned a curious eye on Madam Bones.

"This orb is known to only the Minister and a few Unspeakeables," she explained, and though the appearance of immediate alarm due to the attack had receded, the worry concerning their situation had not. "The rune I just pressed activated extra defenses against intrusion, but unfortunately does not give us another way to escape this office." She smiled wryly. "It's actually a holdover from centuries ago, a relic of a bygone age before portkeys were invented. I suppose I should be thankful that it's still even available for use. I believe it was meant to be scrapped long ago, but for some reason, there was always something else more pressing to be done."

"And what does it do?" Jean-Sebastian asked, he would admit a trifle impatiently.

"It casts a modified Duro on the room. It changes the walls and door to a rock which is incredibly hard—far more durable than any natural stone. It will take them some time to blast their way though."

"Enough time for a rescue to be mounted?"

Madam Bones sighed. "Assuming a rescue is possible. I'm not sure what happened, but the fact that our portkeys don't work and that they have made it this far, suggests a well-planned and coordinated attack, and maybe to new magical abilities which we are not aware of. We may have done nothing more than delay the inevitable."

"Perhaps," Jean-Sebastian replied, determination filling him. "But we may take some of them with us if they _do_ break through."

Jean-Sebastian's quiet determination appeared to fill them all. Thus began perhaps the most nerve wracking hour of Jean-Sebastian's life. Very soon after they had sealed themselves in the office, they began to hear a muffled crashing which grew louder as the time wore on. Clearly, the Death Eaters had discovered what the Minister had done and were attempting to use Reductors and blasting curses to try to force their way through the wall, but true to the Minister's words, it appeared to be very slow going. Not only were those two curses draining, but the wall indeed did appear to be much harder than a standard Duro would create.

During this time, they were not idle. The large mahogany desk was upended and set facing the door while they strengthened it with charms to give them something to take cover behind if the Death Eaters did manage to break through. Everything which could be put as an impediment was stacked against the now stone wall, to give them a few more precious seconds. But those preparations did not actually take long to accomplish, and soon they were hunkered down behind their cover, waiting for the Death Eaters to come through, while the tension rose ever higher with the sound of the Death Eaters' constant assault on the walls of their sanctuary.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of steadily increasing booms and vibrations, the wall shuddered under the assault, and then a small hole was opened near the middle of the door. Through the chips of stone which flew out from the door, Jean Sebastian saw a pair of eyes peering in through the small hole and, without even consciously considering his actions, he reacted.

"_Diffindo!_" he cried, and the spell shot through the small opening and the eyes abruptly disappeared from the hole, accompanied by a scream of pain.

Suddenly several wands were thrust in through the hole and a hail of spellfire emerged, though not being able aim, most of the spells went completely awry. One of the Aurors responded with a Reductor, and there was an explosion of blood and flesh and bits of bone where the hands once were, the screams of the injured, sounding throughout the room. And then the steady pounding resumed. The Death Eaters concentrated on making the hole big enough for a man to fit through, being very careful to avoid exposing themselves to further retaliation from those in the room.

Then the true assault began. The Death Eaters managed to open several smaller holes in the wall, and once these access points were open, they began firing spells of all kinds through the openings, forcing the defenders to take cover. Then, once the main hole had been enlarged, the enemy rushed the room, though only one was able to fit through the door at a time. The first few were cut down by a hail of fire from the four defenders, before a few were able to force their way past the bodies of their fellows and advanced upon the overturned desk, their wands spitting curses.

Returning fire began to be much more problematic as the desk behind which they were taking cover began to disintegrate under the onslaught and more and more wands were brought to bear against them. Even so, they were still holding their own until a Death Eater hit the side of the table with a blasting curse, sending fragments flying out behind the table. The side of it collapsed heavily, a large chunk of it falling on Jean-Sebastian, while fragments flew out, embedding in his thigh and lower leg. Jean-Sebastian cried out in pain and struggled to remove the heavy wood from his back, while his companions grimly kept returning fire.

But as abruptly as it had begun, the assault broke off, and those firing through the holes were suddenly silenced. Deprived of their cover fire, the three uninjured defenders were quickly able to subdue the few remaining Death Eaters who were now caught in a no-man's land with a heavy stone wall to their backs. Fearful for what the Death Eaters were now planning the defenders waited for what seemed like an eternity for the next assault to begin. Jean-Sebastian trembled from the pain of his injuries, knowing that when they did finally attack again, that they would not be able to hold out much longer.

Then, a voice sounded from beyond the broken wall. "Minister Bones?"

"Dumbledore?" the Minister responded, her voice filled at once with both relief and suspicion.

The ancient wizard stuck his head in through the opening, and nearly got hexed for his trouble. "Minister, are you well?" the ancient wizard queried.

"Yes, but Jean-Sebastian is injured," the Minister replied, rising from her position behind the desk.

The next moments passed in a haze of pain for Jean-Sebastian. He knew there was conversation occurring about securing the building and the investigation beginning into how Voldemort's forces managed to pull off an attack of this magnitude. However, the pain of his injuries had caught up with him when the adrenaline of fighting for his life had subsided. He answered a few questions from the Auror triage healer who was brought in to look at his injuries, but more than that seemed to be beyond him. He was in pain and a bone-deep weariness had settled over him.

"Jean-Sebastian," a voice said from somewhere close to his ear.

Jean-Sebastian opened his eyes and saw the Headmaster looking at him with some concern.

"We will evacuate you to Hogwarts for treatment, as there is some question as to how widespread these attacks have been."

Smiling wanly, Jean-Sebastian replied, "I would love to see Fleur."

"Of course. Now, if you will allow me, we have determined that portkeys are still working from the third level down. Minister Bones has assigned two Aurors to see you down to the third floor where you will be taken to Hogwarts by portkey."

"Albus," Jean-Sebastian said with a sudden burst of clarity, "please have someone check on the Ambassador's Manor. I need to know if Apolline and Gabrielle are safe."

"I will take care of that, Ambassador," Kingsley Shacklebolt said from where he was standing a few feet away.

"Thank you both," Jean-Sebastian replied, and he lay back down, succumbing to the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness.

* * *

The wait for those at Hogwarts was just as excruciating as it was for those in the Minister's office, though certainly not as dangerous or as hair-raising. For nothing truly happened at Hogwarts—Dumbledore's concerns about an attack elsewhere pulling him away from Hogwarts, leaving it ripe for attack, proved to be groundless. At least in this instance…

Taking control of the castle's defenses immediately after Dumbledore's departure—though of course he made certain to defer to McGonagall and seek her opinion—Harry set out the patrol schedule and saw to the disposition of the association. Fleur and Hermione were ever-present, of course, giving their opinions and helping by pointing out anything he had missed, or by seeing to the instructions of the various members. Thus it was very soon after Dumbledore's departure that everything was settled and the association members were out in the halls patrolling.

For Harry, the whole experience was almost a little surreal. The club aside, Harry had never been the one to be truly in charge of anything, but in this situation everyone looked to him to make the decisions and to determine what was to be done. If Harry was honest with himself, he would acknowledge that it was a little intimidating—how did one stand in for a wizard with the experience, intelligence, and competence of Albus Dumbledore?

It was not long, however, before he began to understand two things. The first was that no one expected him to be Dumbledore—he was expected to be Harry, a wizard, though much younger, had his own strengths to help lead the way, but his own weaknesses as well, weaknesses which he should not be ashamed of, and which could be mitigated by the strengths of those around him. The second thing he discovered was that he was actually enjoying himself. He had always shied the spotlight, content to remain in the background, and detesting when he actually was the focus of attention. In this instance, however, he was a focus of attention, and yet, because he was involved in the disposition of the club members and everything else that went with it, he was able to ignore the whispers of those in the hall. It was a heady feeling to know that he was being useful to those at Hogwarts in seeing to the security of the school.

Even the words and actions of Roger Davies were not something which could really bother him. The Head Boy had proven himself to be nothing more than petty and childish, and Harry decided that rather than be offended by the boy's action, he would just ignore him.

As the time wore on, Harry discussed the situation with Flitwick and McGonagall, while keeping a surreptitious eye on the Slytherins, noting the fact that they appeared to be content to simply sit and wait it out. Either they were consummate actors, or they were aware that no attack on Hogwarts was to occur that day. Harry thought the latter, as he suspected that Voldemort had thrown most of his forces at the Ministry in an attempt to take over the Wizarding government. When he pointed this out to his friends, the response was generally in agreement.

"I doubt that Voldemort will do anything to jeopardize their positions here," Fleur said, gesturing at the Slytherins. "He's already lost three firm supporters—if he plans to do anything about Hogwarts in the future, he'll need them here."

"So you think they won't do anything today?" Hermione asked.

"We'll see," Harry said firmly. "The wards should be strong enough to deflect any attack. They would have to do something from the inside to help them get in."

"Could they do that?" Hermione asked Professor McGonagall.

"They would have to go through me first," the professor said with a smile. "While the Headmaster is gone, I control the wards. They would have to remove me, and then someone would have to gain control of the wards themselves. I doubt school children would be able to accomplish that."

"There is always the possibility of forcing their way through," said Hermione, in a worried tone.

"These wards are ancient and strong," said McGonagall with a reassuring smile. "It would take the Death Eaters some time to force their way through."

"We'll just have to make sure those inside don't have the chance," Harry replied grimly. "We can worry about Death Eaters assaulting the wards when it actually happens."

Thus the early part of the afternoon passed with no word from the Headmaster or anyone else regarding the state of the battle, and Harry found himself growing impatient. Yes, he was aware of the fact that he was performing an essential task at Hogwarts, but the more impatient part of him—and perhaps the impulsive part, he had to admit—wanted to be out there in the thick of the fight against Voldemort. This sitting and waiting for word was wearing.

It was perhaps mid-afternoon when the doors to the Great Hall opened and in walked Padma Patil who, along with Anthony Goldstein, had been patrolling an area of the castle beyond the Transfiguration corridor. She hurried toward the small table in which they had set up their operations.

"Harry," she greeted as she approached. "Madam Pomfrey wants to see you and Fleur in the hospital wing as soon as possible."

Puzzled, Harry exchanged a brief look with Fleur before turning back to the Ravenclaw. "What does she want?" Harry asked.

"I don't know, but she said it was important."

"Very well, Miss Patil," McGonagall broke into the conversation. "Mr. Potter, Miss Delacour, you should attend Madam Pomfrey immediately."

Harry thought to protest, but Hermione laughed and shooed him along. "We can handle things here while you're gone. Go ahead—I can fill you in if anything happens when you get back."

Reluctantly, Harry allowed himself to be pulled away from the Great Hall, and he and Fleur began making their way to the other end of the castle, along with Padma, who was returning to her patrol partner. Subsequent questioning of Padma revealed nothing—she had been making her rounds with Anthony, and when they had passed close to the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey had stuck her head out the door and asked that Harry and Fleur be summoned. Nothing further had been said by the nurse.

"What do you suppose she wants us for?" Harry asked.

"Maybe someone was injured during their patrols?" Fleur suggested.

"That doesn't seem likely," Harry replied with skepticism. "Why wouldn't she just say so if that was the case?"

Fleur shrugged. "I don't know, but we'll find out in a few minutes." She was silent for a moment before she changed the subject, "Hermione and I have been talking. We think we've come up with a way to make the charmed galleons we gave to all the club members more useful."

Cocking an eyebrow, and knowing that she was trying to distract him, Harry nodded. "How?" he prompted.

"Well, it was more Hermione's idea than anything else," Fleur said, with a self-deprecating smile. "We thought we'd modify the charm to allow us to pass more characters than we could before."

"How would that work? There's not much room on a galleon for long messages."

"We wouldn't need messages that long," Fleur said with a smile. She had taken his hand and as they walked, pulling him along in apparent enthusiasm, though what she had to be enthusiastic about, Harry had no idea. "We could develop a shorthand system, something which would allow us to say more with fewer words."  
"That's got possibilities," Harry admitted.

As they continued to walk, Fleur continued to discuss the matter with some animation. Harry watched her, noting the healthy sheen her excitement gave her already beautiful skin, and the brightness of her deep blue eyes and the way she sometimes playfully swung their hands as they walked in wide arcs, causing him to laugh and retaliate by swinging them even wider.

But something bothered Harry about her behavior. Fleur had always been a little more serious than playful, had been personable, but had never truly put herself forward into the spotlight in any way. He was not certain what to make of her behavior, for in the past day or so, she almost seemed like she was trying to attract his attention, when before she would have been content to sit back and allow him to notice her on his own.

He could not tell even himself exactly what it was about her that was catching his attention, he decided, thinking that she was still the same intelligent and caring girl he had come to know over the past several months. But there was just something, maybe a trifle… forced about her behavior that had never been there before, and if Harry was honest with himself, he found that it worried him a little.

But the fact of the matter was that he was not certain exactly what to call it, let alone how to talk to her about it. It was better to simply watch her and allow her to come to him on her own time, he decided. Surely their relationship was strong enough for her to confide in him if something was truly bothering her. Settling for just watching her and speaking with her later if her behavior kept changing, he followed her into the hospital ward. But not before she leaned back toward him with her eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Maybe you should go first," she teased. "From what I've heard, you know this place pretty well—almost like it's a second home."

Harry directed a mock glare at her, as she opened the door and motioned him to step in. "Now be nice," he chided.

When they turned into the hospital wing all levity died.

"Papa?" Fleur breathed at the sight of Jean-Sebastian lying in a nearby bed.

"Hello, Petal," Jean-Sebastian said, using his pet name for her that he had used when she was a child. His voice was wan but alert.

Fleur rushed to his bedside followed closely by Harry, where she grasped his hand fiercely in her own. "Papa, what happened?"

"I understand you already know about what has happened at the Ministry today?"

"You were there?" Fleur asked with a gasp.

"Visiting with the Minister," Jean-Sebastian confirmed.

"What happened, sir?" Harry pressed. "Have the Death Eaters been beaten back?"

"Now, Harry," Jean-Sebastian replied with an amused smile, "what have I said about you calling me 'sir'?"

Abashedly, but also somewhat impatiently, Harry nodded to acknowledge his reproof, while fixing Fleur's father with a stern glare demanding answers. Jean-Sebastian let out a laugh, which was then followed by a slight grimace. But he then obliged them by launching into a description of the day's events, ending with his evacuation to Hogwarts.

Harry was troubled. "So they didn't want to risk sending you to St. Mungos? I thought they only attacked the Ministry."

"I don't know of any other attacks," Jean-Sebastian pointed out. "But considering the Ministry has been out of touch with the rest of the Wizarding world for the duration of the battle, they felt it was best not to take any chances." Chuckling, Jean-Sebastian continued, "I am a foreign dignitary, after all, and the Minister would not want to have to tell my government that I had been killed at a location where I should have been safe."

"What of those injured at the Ministry?" Fleur asked.

"One of the first things they will do will be to send teams to see if there are any other attacks. Then St. Mungos will be secured and the injured moved there. If there is any problem there, then I assume that more injured will show up here."

"And we will be ready to handle them," Madam Pomfrey broke into the conversation, "though I would wish there were more healers to assist." She turned to Harry. "In the meantime, Mr. Potter, one of your patrols just stepped into the room. It seems you are wanted in the Great Hall."

Harry nodded. "We need to let everyone know that the attack is over anyway."

"We should keep patrolling, though," Fleur said.

"Yes, but at least they should know where we stand now."

"All right," Fleur replied. "I will see you later, Papa."

"Why don't you stay here, Fleur?" Harry interjected. "I'll go and speak with McGonagall."

"I would appreciate the company, Fleur," Jean-Sebastian said while patting his daughter on the hand. "We haven't spoken much since Christmas."

"Then it's settled," Harry stated.

Fleur appeared like she would have preferred to leave with Harry, but she nodded her acquiescence with a smile, leaning her cheek up to accept an affectionate kiss before Harry left. As Harry made his way back to the Great Hall, he wondered at what had happened that day and what Voldemort was trying to accomplish. By taking over the Ministry he would have gained control of many of the tools the Ministry used to monitor the country, and Harry imagined that their use could be corrupted in the hands of one as ruthless and inventive as Voldemort. But was that all there was to it? And why had he not as yet made a play for Hogwarts?

There were no answers at this juncture. There was nothing to do but wait, watch, and counter whatever the madman decided to do next. But at some point, they would fight back. Of this Harry was certain.

* * *

An hour after the assault had finally been broken and the final Death Eaters had been routed from the building, a semblance of order was finally returning to the Ministry. It had taken a beating, as the scorched walls, battered and completely destroyed furniture and doors, and the faint miasma of death and destruction in the air could testify. No less had its workers suffered, however, though thus far it was a relief to discover that the number of casualties—though substantial—was far less than had been feared or expected. Some workers had even managed to fight back against the Death Eaters, slowing them down and inflicting losses on their side that they had surely not planned for. In all, the image the Wizarding government was presenting was that of a prize fighter whose opponent had scored a knockdown, but not the desired knockout. They were bloodied, but still hale and able to carry on the fight.

As her first action after the building had been secured, Madam Bones had instructed Kingsley Shacklebolt—acting director of the DMLE with Scrimgeour's death—to call in all Aurors and Hit Wizards back to the building to secure it. The message they had managed to dispatch earlier had been received by a certain number of them, but when the new message had been dispatched, Auror personnel began arriving and within the hour the full strength of the Ministry—except those who were out patrolling or involved with other assignments—had been gathered once again.

As her second act, several of the senior Aurors had been dispatched to certain high profile targets within the Wizarding world to determine if Voldemort had set his sights primarily on the Ministry building, or if his plans that day had been far grander. In particular, Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and St. Mungos were all considered to be primary targets, given his patterns from the first war.

Because of his position as the Chief Wizard, Albus was of course central to these discussions. Internally, however, he was concerned. He had been gone from Hogwarts for several hours already, and though nothing as yet had been heard of any other attacks, the longer he was away from the school, the more nervous he became. Hogwarts was an extremely tempting target—an entire generation of England's best and brightest students was in attendance at that very moment, after all, with prominent names such as Longbottom, Bones, Greengrass, Ogden, and Goldstein in residence, along with many others. If Voldemort could somehow gain access to and control over the school, he could hold the students hostage, potentially committing atrocities at his leisure while he demanded the surrender of the Ministry forces. Albus suspected that this had not been his plan that day, but the uncertainty was wearing. It was becoming imperative that he return to the school.

The other problem was Remus and Tonks, who had come to speak to him almost as soon as the fighting had ceased. And with all of the heartache and pain which had come about because of Voldemort's attack that day, the information with which they had returned was apparently not comforting, though Albus had yet to know what it was in specifics. The conversation, though, had chilled him.

* * *

"Headmaster," Remus said urgently, the moment Albus had a free moment from the myriad other things with which he was attempting to contend with at that moment.

Knowing he had best hear the man out and send him off to Hogwarts before Madam Bones or anyone else became curious as to his—or perhaps more specifically Tonks'—return, Albus turned to him and motioned him to a relatively private alcove where they could speak without fear of being overheard.

"I assume that since you are back so soon that you've found something?" Albus smiled at the younger man. "To be honest, I would not have been surprised if you had been gone until the summer."

Remus frowned, but he did not say anything about Albus's assertion. "We have found out everything we were able. But Albus—the news is not good."

Sighing, Albus passed a weary hand over his brow. This was not unexpected, regardless of how he had hoped that an answer could be found. The difficulty would be breaking it to Harry.

"And Albus," Remus continued even more ominously, "the information we have found about Horcruxes contradicts much about what you told us. The situation is potentially more serious than you had thought."

Now that was not unexpected—the information they had was likely retranslated several times over to get to them after all. But for their information to be as wrong as Remus was suggesting would mean that the source material was in error.

"Are you certain?"

"Albus, our information cannot be disputed. It comes directly from the original scrolls."

_That_ got Albus's attention. "You've actually seen the original scrolls?"

"Preserved for more than 3500 years. I can't say any more than that at this time. But Albus…" Remus faltered for a moment. "The Horcrux is at once simpler and more horrible than you know. It's fortunate that Voldemort does not know the true nature of the spell, or we might never have even known what he is up to."

Intrigued in spite of the current serious situation, Albus was about to question Remus further when the man put up his hand to forestall any further questioning. "I literally _can't_ say anything more right now. There is an unbreakable vow at work, and an extremely stringent one at that."

Albus eyed him for a moment before he nodded tightly. "In that case, you should gather Miss Tonks and return to Hogwarts immediately. Until we know exactly what we are dealing with, we cannot risk any word of this getting out."

Remus nodded and Albus continued. "Seek out Professor McGonagall. She is not privy to our knowledge of Horcruxes, but she is loyal and knows better than to ask questions. She will arrange for you to rest in a suite of rooms while you wait. I hope to return to Hogwarts in a very short time."

* * *

And yet now, although some time had passed since his conversation with Remus, Albus appeared no closer to leaving than he had been before. Madam Bones was supremely confident and had taken command of the situation immediately, but she had preferred his input and attention; of course she was in no way comparable to what Minister Fudge had been like. Madam Bones wanted his input and experience, but did not depend on him to make the decisions in a crisis, as Fudge had often done. At least when he had not been trying to tear Albus's reputation down…

More than an hour after Remus and Tonks had departed, Albus found himself in a conference room near the Minister's office, listening to the reports given by Shacklebolt of what they had discovered thus far. Of course the information was somewhat sketchy as, not only had their communications been severely interrupted, but there was some confusion inherent in such a complex situation.

"Have the Auror teams reported back yet?" Madam Bones asked as meeting began.

"Not yet, Minister," Kingsley replied. "The teams have not been gone long yet, but we should receive word back at any time."

"What of the investigation into this attack? Do we know how the Death Eaters were able to get in the building so easily?"

Kingsley shook his head. "That is unclear. But we are certain of several things. First, they were able to shut down the Floo network within moments of the opening of the attack."

"That suggests someone working on the inside," Moody inserted into the conversation.

"That's what we suspect," was Kingsley's grim reply. "Initial assessment of the Floo system suggests that it was taken down rather than damaged. It should be up again very shortly."

"But is it safe for use?" Albus queried.

"That I cannot guarantee. I have posted two Aurors in the department to watch for anything unusual, and we will continue to rotate guards so that it is monitored at all times of the day. But if there is an insider, it is possible that they have set up another Floo hub and can use it to monitor traffic and pull users from the Floo."

The room was silent for a moment while those gathered within considered the import of Kingsley's report. It was Moody who voiced what was going through everyone's minds.

"Then everyone needs to be told that the Floo is unsafe and should be avoided."

Kingsley nodded. "All Aurors will now portkey into the department at designated locations, and will avoid the use of the Floo system at all times. In addition, the Department of Magical Transportation will investigate the possibility of removing the atrium Floos from the Floo system and directly connecting them to an outside location so that workers may access the building. Those using them will need to get to that location on their own, but at least we'll have a safe and convenient way to get the workers to their jobs."

"And if the Department of Magical Transportation is not trustworthy?" the Minister asked.

"We will monitor their work," Kingsley said with determination.

When no one commented further, Kingsley moved on to the next point. "The second is regarding the use of portkeys. As you all know, portkey travel is restricted into and out of the Ministry building—only a Department Head may authorize a portkey into the building, and even then only to certain commonly designated areas of the building or those locations which are part of their own departments.

"Auror teams are investigating, but it appears that many Death Eaters actually portkeyed into the building and it is certain that many escaped using portkeys. And we all know what happened with the Minister's emergency portkey, not to mention the portkey Director Scrimgeour created to try to access your office."

"Have the Death Eaters managed to figure out a way to bypass portkey wards?" asked Minister Bones.

"That is possible," Kingsley replied, "but it also means that they would have managed to somehow raise portkey wards without the appropriate wardstones, which we also know is not possible. Again, we are investigating—I will report once again when the truth is known."

"Is anything else known?" The Minister's eyes were hard—clearly she was taking this whole attack as a personal affront to her, and one which she would not allow to happen again under her watch.

"Casualties were relatively light, all things considered," Kingsley replied. "There were many injured during the attack, primarily Ministry workers, but fatalities were fewer than I would have expected. There were also only four Aurors killed in the fighting, in addition to Director Scrimgeour, though, again, many were injured. I'm pleased to report that our forces acquitted themselves very well. The Death Eaters hit us during a time when a large portion of our manpower was out. About the only thing they could have done better was to perhaps draw more of our strength away by diversionary attacks."

"And why didn't they?"

"Again, uncertain at this time. We may know more when our teams begin to report in."

Kingsley paused before looking up at Albus with some regret evident upon his face. "Not all of our fatalities were present from the time the attack began. Among the dead, we discovered the men who were escorting Mr. Malfoy back from Hogwarts. Of Malfoy himself there is no sign."

Arthur Weasley, who had been silent up to this point, as was his wont, let out a gasp. "Was the attack staged to free Draco?"

"Unlikely," Moody said with a grunt. "You don't expend this kind of manpower or take this type of risk to free a scrawny, mediocre teenage wizard. The boy is important to Voldemort now that his father is dead, but only as a link to the Malfoy money. No, they may have used the timing of the attack as an opportunity to free him, but there was much more at stake than that."

That Draco Malfoy had escaped was a piece of news that Albus _was not_ looking forward to informing Harry about, nor indeed his two lady friends. Even though there were several suspected Death Eater children still at Hogwarts, Draco's removal had given them a sense that the danger had eased to a certain extent. But Albus knew that Miss Granger in particular would likely not sleep easy until Draco Malfoy was locked away for good.

"Very well," the Minister was saying. "Although it is distasteful so soon after his death, we will need to replace Director Scrimgeour." She paused and fixed each of the men in the room with a stern glare. "Under the circumstances, it would be best for a replacement to be named quickly."

Her glance turned to Alastor who obviously noticed. It was equally apparent that he did not like the suggestion in the least. "Not me, Amelia. You know I don't want to be tied down to a desk."

"I was actually thinking of naming Kingsley to be the Director and for you to take over as Head Auror," was the Minister's reply.

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"I expect you take responsibility so that we can face the Death Eaters effectively," Minister Bones snapped, her nostrils flaring. She was clearly on the verge of losing her temper.

Alastor, however, was not impressed by her displeasure, nor did he respond to her displeasure. "You know I am not suited for a desk job. Give Head Auror to Gawain—he is more than capable of handling it. I prefer to work in the field."

The Minister and the grizzled old Auror faced off, neither giving an inch for several moments before Kingsley interjected, "I believe Gawain would be a good choice," diffidently in the conversation.

"Speak to him immediately," Minister Bones replied shortly. "Now is not the best time to be making changes in the department with what is happening, but I suppose we have no choice." She turned a scathing glare on Alastor. "I presume you will not have any difficulty working with Gawain to make the transition easier."

"Don't take that tone with me, Missy," Alastor growled in response. "You may be the Minister now, but to me you're just a green recruit. I can still take you over my knee and paddle your arse!"

Minister Bones let out a bark of laughter. "You don't really respect anyone in a position of authority, do you Alastor?"

"And don't you forget it." Alastor flashed a grin at her, but in his weathered and beaten face, it appeared almost a grimace. Most of the rest of the room laughed at the exchange, though Arthur appeared to be somewhat scandalized at the way Moody was speaking to the Minister.

"Finally, I have one more thing to discuss," Madam Bones said, turning away from the veteran Auror. "As you are all aware, the Senior Undersecretary position has been vacant since Minister Fudge sacked Umbridge. I suspect he was trying to find someone as effective at being his hatchet man as Delores was, while ensuring that whoever he chose was loyal to him—or at least he had enough dirt on them to keep them in line. Umbridge contacted me soon after I was elected, offering her services, but I disabused her of any notion of working for me."

Albus raised an eyebrow at the knowledge that Umbridge had truly thought she could worm her way back into any position of authority in the Ministry.

"I know," Amelia said with a roll of her eyes, when she saw the reactions of those in the room. "I have no need of a hatchet man—I prefer someone who will work for the betterment of our world and help me run the Ministry while I focus on the prosecution of the war against Voldemort. It has become readily apparent that I have waited too long to appoint a Senior Undersecretary. "

Turning to Arthur Weasley, Amelia continued, "Arthur, I would like you to take over the office of Senior Undersecretary."

His jaw dropping, Arthur gazed at her with astonishment. "Me?" he asked incredulously.

"Arthur," Minister Bones began, "I can't think of anyone I would prefer to take over the position. I know for a fact that you are loyal to the Ministry and to the light, and also that you are a good man, yet sensible. I know you are not suited to be the traditional bulldog that the Senior Undersecretary is usually positioned to be, but as I said before, it is not necessary for you to be so. What I need is a hard-working, honest and upstanding individual to work with me through this crisis."

Minister Bones smiled at him with amusement. "Think of it as turnabout being fair play. It was you that convinced me to take this accursed job. Now I require a similar sacrifice from you."

Albus watched Arthur as he struggled with the notion, knowing that the unassuming man had likely accepted the fact that he would never rise further in the Ministry than his current position. And now the second most powerful position in the Ministry was being offered to him on a silver platter. It had to be a difficult change for the man, for all that Albus was certain that the Minister's choice was inspired.

"If you need me, then I'm yours," Arthur finally replied after a few moments' thought.

"Good," Madam Bones replied. She turned and fixed her attention on Kingsley. "I believe that is all for now, but you will inform me the moment that we get word back from our teams in the field."

"Of course, Minister."

"I believe that is my cue to leave," Albus said while standing.

The Minister peered at Albus in some surprise. "I was hoping to consult further with you, Albus."

"And I shall make myself available as soon as may be, Minister. But I have a school to look after and I fear that Voldemort will use my absence as opportunity to attack the school. I must return."

Before the Minister could respond, there was a sudden loud and frantic-sounding knocking at the door. Arthur, who was closest to the door, turned to look at Minister Bones, who waved him to answer it. When he did so, a wild-eyed Auror stepped into the room and looked to Kingsley.

"Head Auror, the teams are beginning to report in."

"And what are their reports?" Kingsley demanded.

"No Death Eater activity was found in any of the high risk targets. But we're starting to get reports of attacks all across the country."

"Where?" Kingsley demanded, rising to his feet.

"The Weasleys, Longbottom Manor, the Lovegood residence, the Ambassador's Manor, and several families of Muggleborns were all hit. We're still trying to get more information, but the reports are sketchy with the Floo system still down."

"The Burrow?" Arthur gasped, turning white. He stood said, "With your permission, Minister," while agitatedly wringing his hands in his distress.

"Of course. Kingsley, send a detachment of Aurors with Arthur."

"Yes, Minister," Kingsley said, and he and Arthur strode from the room without waiting for her reply.

"In light of what is happening, I believe it would be best if you were to stay here," the Minister said, turning her attention to Albus.

Frustrated, Albus was about to respond, when she cut him off with pleading eyes. "Take a moment to ensure that nothing has happened at Hogwarts, of course. But I believe we would benefit by having your wisdom and experience readily available."

Though he would have liked to argue, Albus realized she was right, as long as nothing significant had happened at the school. Excusing himself he went to another room and, conjuring his patronus, sent it off to the school to speak with McGonagall. His reply arrived in minutes. It appeared that he would be at the Ministry for at least the next few hours.

* * *

While the leaders spoke of appointments and plans, and speculated on how Voldemort had engineered the attack, Sirius Black entered the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, searching for a particular face.

The Auror department was a mess. Being one of the major targets of the attack, it was no surprise the place was a shambles of destroyed furniture, ruined and blasted walls, and scorch marks which bespoke the deadly intent of the attacking forces. It was also a hive of activity, now that all the teams had been called in to lock down the building, with Aurors running this way and that, support staff busying themselves with cleanup, and all the myriad of other tasks which were required to get it back on its feet. More than once, Sirius had been stopped by suspicious Aurors to patiently explain who he was and what he was doing there. It was frustrating, but he could not blame them for their caution—he would be doing the same thing were he in their position.

But none of this held any true meaning for Sirius. He wended his way through the department, dealing with the various teams as patiently as he could, all the while searching this way and that for the person he had come to find.

When he finally spotted her, it was like a ray of sunshine through all the devastation.

He approached her, noting that she saw him in almost the same instant that he had seen her. He had not seen her since the day of the Death Eater trials—had it really only been three days before?—but regardless, she was almost like a drop of water in an ocean of sand. He could not state just how she had become important to him. He only knew that she was.

"Hey," Hestia said softly as he approached.

"Hey yourself," said Sirius in reply. "I was looking for you."

Her mouth rose in a smile. "It seems to me that you've found me."

"I believe I have."

Sirius did not know even in the confines of his own mind if his statement meant anything more than it seemed on the surface, but he was not insensible to the way her countenance lit up as he said it. He reached out and took her hand, drawing circles on its back as he gazed at her, drinking in the sight of her.

"You're not hurt?" Yes the question was somewhat obvious, but he found he needed the confirmation from her own lips.

"It will take a little more than a few Death Eaters to get me down."

"I guess so," was the only reply Sirius could muster.

At that moment, as Sirius stood in the tattered remains of the Ministry of Magic, he felt that, somewhat incongruously, he had finally come home. He could not even state with a surety, just exactly what he feelings for this woman consisted. However, he did know that being in her presence made him feel like a better man. And given that James had once said exactly the same thing about Lily, Sirius could well imagine where this could take him. For once in his life it was not something to joke about. It was very possible that the woman standing in front of him was his future. He would take great pleasure in discovering whether his intuition was correct.

* * *

After a long and dizzying portkey journey, Draco arrived in a heap on the floor of a large room in what he knew to be the Dark Lord's lair. He had been there before, during the Christmas holidays when his father had brought him here to meet the Dark Lord. It looked like the oncoming onslaught of spring had done nothing for the surroundings, as even the light coming in through the many windows appeared grey and lifeless. But Draco supposed that such a circumstance likely fit the Dark Lord rather nicely. The nature of his mission was such that a drab and grey landscape was a minor problem in the grand scheme of things.

Movement caught his attention and all at once Draco became aware of another presence in the room, and the fact startled him, even more when he realized who it was. It was his aunt Bellatrix.

"Draco," she said smoothly in that silky voice of hers, "the Dark Lord wishes to speak with you."

"He's here?" Draco asked, swallowing a lump in his throat. After all, it could not be denied that he had—technically anyway—failed in his mission. Draco knew that the Dark Lord did not punish his followers indiscriminately when they failed, but he was very much afraid that this time would warrant such a punishment in his eyes.

"He is not," Bellatrix replied. "The Dark Lord is out on a mission at present. He will summon you when he returns."

Bellatrix turned and motioned for him to follow her from the room. "I will show you to a room where you may await his return."

Following with alacrity, Draco soon found himself in a long hallway, watching his aunt surreptitiously as she walked. She did not appear to be in any way displeased with him, but in the short time that she had been free of prison Draco had learned never to underestimate the volatility and swiftness of her temper. The woman was mercurial and unpredictable, and he was well aware of the fact that she was creative in her punishment should he do anything that she perceived to be disrespectful or without proper forethought.

"Is my mother here?" Draco asked, more as a means to fill the uncomfortable silence than from any real curiosity.

"She is not," Bellatrix replied without even a glance in his direction. "She is at Malfoy Manor mourning the loss of her husband." Bellatrix paused for a moment before she continued. "You must understand, Draco, that your mother is not made from the same material as your father was. It is a sad fact that she does not possess the stomach to do what needs to be done. Respect her as your mother, but do not look to her for direction. Look only to the Dark Lord for that."

Draco did not reply, but he nodded. He had come to the same conclusion himself, after all—their last conversation when she had urged him to take care was still stuck firmly in his consciousness and he would not forget it.

"However, another problem has arisen," Bellatrix was saying. "With your father dead, the Dark Lord has lost access to the Malfoy fortune. That is a serious setback in our ability to prosecute this war."

"I will go to Gringotts and demand that the vermin return control of the vaults to their rightful owner!"

"Do not be stupid!" Bellatrix snapped, and Draco turned a disbelieving eye toward his aunt. No one—not even his father when displeased or the Dark Lord when he had imparted his instructions—had ever spoken to him in such a matter.

His protest died on his lips, however, as Bellatrix had fixed him with a hard stare of contempt. He held his silence, knowing it would not do to provoke her.

"You are on the run from the Ministry—the goblins would never allow you access, even if you could get to the bank. Besides, if our efforts today succeed, then you will enjoy legal access to your vaults. But until we know the results of our efforts today, you will stay here and wait for the Dark Lord."

Cowed, Draco nodded, while vowing silently to himself that he would rise above Bellatrix, become the Dark Lord's right-hand man as his father had been before. _No one_ would speak to him in such a manner again. A moment later he was left to his own devices and a long and uncomfortable wait for the Dark Lord's pleasure. There was not even a clock in the room to inform him of the passage of time, which almost seemed to magnify his waiting time, making it appear longer and ever more uncomfortable. One thing was certain—once he was finally taken before the Dark Lord, he would not be at his best.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Continued thanks to everyone following this story. It's a bit later than usual and I'm dead tired now, I'm happy to be able to get this out tonight.

2. Yes I know that I teased you with more cryptic information about Horcruxes. The first part of the reveal is coming in chapter 56.

3. I love Alastor Moody. He's such a fun character to write, and somehow I never know what's going to come out of his mouth. I hope you all enjoyed him too!


	55. Chapter 54 – Awaiting News

**Previously: **The aftermath of the attack on the Ministry. Jean-Sebastian and Minister Bones are trapped in the Minister's office and are rescued when Dumbledore leads the counter-attack against the Death Eaters. Fleur and Harry are called to the hospital wing where they find Jean-Sebastian, after he was evacuated from the Ministry. Remus tells Dumbledore that they found some information in Egypt, then leaves for Hogwarts. The Auror department begins investigating the attacks. Reports begin to come in about other attacks around the country and when the Burrow is mentioned, Arthur leaves with a detachment of Aurors. Sirius finds Hestia in the Auror department, unharmed. Draco arrives at the Death Eater base and is taken to a room where he will wait for Voldemort.

* * *

**Chapter 54 – Awaiting News**

The reports came in fast and furious after the initial account of the additional attacks. Not only had the residences named in the initial report been hit by Death Eater attacks, but it seemed like every moment word of some new target had come pouring in. Once the Floo had been restored, Albus was on the device, making calls to those who he knew would be involved in these attacks, verifying for himself that those under his protection were safe and had survived their ordeals without injury.

The first ones to be confirmed well were Molly Weasley and the Grangers. While Arthur was gone, Albus had been able to Floo Grimmauld Place and confirm that Molly, though certainly shaken by the experience, had recognized the danger and had portkeyed to safety. With her were the Grangers, whose house had been targeted by Death Eaters while they had been home eating lunch before returning to their practice which, he was told, was situated close by. They too were frightened and worried about the state of their home, but also simply glad that they had taken his advice and kept their portkeys to hand and had had the presence of mind to use them when the Death Eaters had burst through the door to their home, wands blazing with spells. Even so it had been a near thing.

Thus, when Arthur had stumbled back into the Ministry with a story of the smoldering ruins of his former house on his lips, Albus was able to give him the news and calm him down.

"Safe at Grimmauld?" he asked, his face lighting up with hope.

"She portkeyed out as soon as the wards reported trouble," Albus confirmed.

Arthur sagged down into his seat, his face giving way to exhausted relief. "Thank you, Albus. I do not know what we will do now, but at least Molly is well."

"For starters, you can take up residence at Grimmauld for the time being," Albus replied. "I am certain Sirius would be happy to host you and your wife, as well as the Grangers, for the time being. We can sort everything else out in the future."

A wan smile met his reply and Arthur nodded his acceptance.

As for the Rookery, Xenophilius Lovegood had not been at home—he had been out on one of his expeditions to look for fantastic creatures, and while his itinerary was not known, he was not expected back until close to the end of the school year. His daughter would have to be told that her home had been destroyed, but at least she still had her father. At Longbottom Manor, as well as a few other Pureblood homes, the Death Eaters had run into more sophisticated defenses, as those homes were old and well warded. Several had been destroyed, but there had been no fatalities to report. Madam Longbottom herself had been at the Ministry at the time of the attack, and although she had suffered a minor injury, she would quickly make a full recovery. And finally, Madam Delacour had, by all accounts, escaped to France through their Floo connection back to Chateau Delacour, though most of the guard detail at the manor had been killed trying to hold the Death Eaters off. The Minister had received a communiqué from his French counterpart informing her of Apolline's escape, and two pieces of news of a more chilling nature—it seemed that Voldemort had put in a personal appearance at the manor, and he had been aided by one of the French Aurors who, it appeared had been a Death Eater. He had obviously seen Jean-Sebastian as the threat he was, and had attacked to either persuade the French Ambassador to rethink his alliances, or hold his wife and daughter hostage, ensuring his compliance.

The most disturbing, however, had been the homes of Muggleborns which had been attacked. By and large, Muggles had little defense against wizards casting killing curses, and there had been several deaths reported by the Auror teams investigating. However, one plucky Muggle had seen the Death Eaters approaching his property and, knowing of their reputation, had met them with a loaded firearm, killing three before the rest had retreated in disarray. Albus doubted that Voldemort would take that particular setback with any degree of equanimity.

All of this was continually being heaped on the heads of the harried Auror staff, and little by little the true scope of the day's events was becoming known. There were several implications of what had happened which Albus did not like at all.

Sitting in the conference room Madam Bones had taken over until her office could be put to rights, Albus's conversation with the Minister and Arthur Weasley was interrupted by a grim-faced Kingsley Shacklebolt who entered with Gawain Robards in tow.

"Minister, I believe you need to see this," he stated without preamble.

"What is it, Kingsley?"

In response, Gawain set a small stone covered with runes on the table in front of the three occupying it. "A runestone. It's only a small one and likely would not have held up for long, but it served them for the purpose of a short attack. We found it in the back of a cabinet in one of the offices in the administrative section. Several more have also been found on both this floor, and down on level two."

Furious, the Minister stared up at the Director. "How in Merlin's name did the Death Eaters manage to set up portkey wards without our knowledge?"

Kingsley shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't answer that, Minister. But it appears like this attack has been planned for some time—several months at least, I would say. First, they set up wards rendering our portkeys unusable, and then they brought the Floo system down in an attempt to isolate us. But for Albus," Kingsley flicked a glance in Albus's direction, "they may ultimately have succeeded."

"There's more, Minister," Gawain spoke up for the first time. "Not only did they manage to set portkey wards up under our noses, but most of them escaped using portkeys themselves. We all know that no one other than a department head is able to authorize portkeys to and from the building."

"Are you telling me that we have a rogue department head?" Amelia demanded.

"It certainly appears that way," Kingsley confirmed. "Given this," he indicated the ward stone, "our conjecture that they managed to bypass portkey wards seems to be false. We've always known that we're dealing with an enemy who has many in his employ who are moving among us—this serves to illustrate that fact rather effectively."

Silence descended over the office and Albus reflected over what had just been revealed. That Voldemort had moles working among them was unsurprising—it had been difficult to determine friend from foe in the first war, though Voldemort had never attempted such an audacious attack as this. Would this war turn out to be even worse? Not with Amelia in charge, he hoped—there were ways to fight against this which neither of her predecessors had ever used. Now was the time to do so.

"We also have an enemy who brands his followers to ensure their compliance and their responsiveness when he calls," Albus reminded them. "I believe that we should begin to sweep the Ministry for Death Eaters and sympathizers."

The Minister nodded. "See to it immediately, Kingsley. But be cautious—we can't afford for them to go to ground before we are ready to move on them."

"I will draw up some plans immediately, Minister." Kingsley fell silent for a moment and exchanged a look with Robards. "One more thing," he continued, looking Minister Bones in the eye. "It seems as though Voldemort has increased his number of followers by a substantial amount."

The Minister gazed at him through narrowed eyes. "Explain."

Kingsley held up a single finger as he made his first point, and as he continued, he raised more for each subsequent point. "The exact number of Death Eaters who participated in the assault on the Ministry is unknown, but we can reasonably estimate that it was more than one hundred, probably substantially more. Then there were at least ten separate attacks on various targets of a magical nature, each with at least three or four Death Eaters involved. The attack on the Ambassador's Mansion involved Voldemort himself, as well as at least five more Death Eaters. And finally, the families of at least ten more Muggleborns were targeted, again, each with at least three or four assailants, some with more. And Bellatrix, who is now the only known high level inner circle member left, was not even seen during the course of the day. This is significant because in the past she would almost certainly have been leading one of the assault teams; today, the teams were led by others and even if she is still recuperating from her injuries sustained at the Ministry, that she was not needed is telling. When you add it all up, that brings the tally to over two hundred Death Eaters involved with the day's attacks. And to be honest, I consider that a conservative estimate. Finally, the attacks were all carried out by Death Eaters—no werewolves, vampires, giants, or Dementors were involved."

A shocked silence met his declaration. "At the height of the previous war, it was estimated that he only had perhaps sixty or seventy wands," the Minister stated. "Now you're telling me that he has perhaps tripled the size of his forces?"

"At minimum," Kingsley confirmed.

"Do we know how?" Arthur asked. "Pureblood bigots are plentiful, but those willing to kill to spread their philosophy are not."

"Not at present," Robards replied. "We have taken a few Death Eaters into custody—we should be able to get some answers from them."

"Make it a priority, Kingsley," the Minister instructed. "We need to know exactly what we are facing."

Bowing his head, Kingsley nodded before he and Robards departed. Noting the fact that most of the revelations for the day had been imparted and that he needed to return to the school, Albus once again stood.

"Minister, I truly must return to Hogwarts."

Amelia waved him off. "I understand. Keep in contact, Albus—this whole situation is troubling, and I'm sure we will need your wisdom in the coming days."

"We will all need to work together," Albus agreed, before he bowed and strode from the room.

* * *

As Draco had expected the wait for the Dark Lord to summon him was long and excruciating, with no company to keep him occupied, and without any indication of the passing of time. He was not even afforded some healing for his shoulder, which throbbed fiercely and made him wish for the attentions of Madam Pomfrey. There were sounds of others moving from place to place through the walls and door of his room, as well as the low murmur of conversation on the occasion when someone passed by.

For the most part, however, all there was of Draco's world was silence, memories, and the thoughts of what he would say to the Dark Lord. And in the cold light of the small room in which he waited, Draco had to admit that regardless of how the events had played out, the fact was that he had failed to carry out the Dark Lord's orders. That would have to be acknowledged and understood if he wished to have the Dark Lord's mercy bestowed upon him. It galled him, to be honest—after all, a Malfoy did not bow to anyone. But the Dark Lord was different, he supposed, and the normal rules did not apply. Then once the fact that he had not succeeded had been acknowledged, he would have to convince the Dark Lord that he was still useful to him. This was not as much of a concern, thankfully—he was still a Malfoy, after all, and heir to all his father's holdings, beyond his own personal skills and knowledge which would be of use to the Dark Lord.

That settled, Draco returned his thoughts to what had happened with Granger and Potter, how he hated them both above anything else in the entire world, and just exactly how his revenge upon them would play out. When he had made his move against Granger at Hogwarts, the thought of delivering the girl into the hands of the Dark Lord, coupled with the knowledge of what she would suffer at the hands of his men, had been enough for Draco, even though he had known that he would not be able to participate in her… education himself. Now, however, he burned with a desire for vengeance upon her. No longer was he satisfied to allow others to make her pay for her crimes—Draco would personally see to it that the Mudblood suffered by his own hand. Of this, he was determined.

His thoughts of vengeance, and his planning of just exactly what he would do to Granger once he got his hands on her, dominated Draco's thoughts, allowing him to focus on them rather than the coming audience with the Dark Lord. Thus, when the door opened, he was startled from his pleasant thoughts of imagining Granger's screams. He looked up to see the impassive face of Bellatrix Lestrange looking down at him.

"The Dark Lord has returned and has requested your presence, Draco."

Nodding, Draco rose and followed his aunt from the room, matching her pace as she strode down the hallways. She said nothing throughout the journey through the house—which was rather large, Draco thought idly—to the large room that the Dark Lord had set up as his own audience chamber.

When they entered, the Dark Lord was pacing at the far end of the room, clearly deep in thought, and not as sanguine as Draco had hoped he would be. Draco had hoped that the Dark Lord's own mission would have been a success, putting him in a forgiving frame of mind, but given the worry lines on his face, that clearly had not been the case. Draco's heart sank at the cold gaze of the Dark Lord when it alighted on him almost as soon as he had entered the room—that was not a look of one seeing a faithful follower. It was more the look of a man about to squash an insect, or a wolf stalking a fat deer.

Doing his best to ignore the scrutiny, Draco proceeded toward the Dark Lord until his aunt stopped, at which point he dropped to one knee and steadfastly settled his gaze upon the floor, waiting for the Dark Lord to speak. His wait was a long one, undoubtedly magnified by the discomfort of knowing that those serpentine eyes were fixed upon him the whole time he knelt. Draco forced himself to stay still and to await the man's pleasure without fidgeting.

"So, you have joined us," the Dark Lord finally said. "However, you appear to have come empty-handed, and without the prize I instructed you to deliver to me. Perhaps you would care to explain yourself?"

Knowing that this was not a request and that the Dark Lord would not take kindly to his sugar-coating of the events of the previous morning, Draco spoke up with all the deference he was feeling at that time. "I apologize most fervently, my lord. The plan appeared to be working as intended, but Potter somehow discovered what I was doing and he caught me before I arrived at the ward boundaries."

"Draco. Arise. Look at me."

Though he was feeling like his bones were made of lead, Draco did as he was instructed. He met the Dark Lord's eyes, noting the impatience and displeasure, but also seeing a hint of curiosity.

"Now, explain to me exactly what happened."

Hesitantly, but gaining confidence when the Dark Lord did not react with anger, Draco detailed what had happened, from his planning, using the Imperius curse on the two younger students, waiting in the hallways and his capture of Granger, to the journey down the passageway toward Hogsmeade. And though he was loath to say much which could even obliquely be taken as a compliment to Potter, he forced himself to describe the confrontation in the passage as clearly and honestly as he remembered it. He did avoid mentioning the battering he had taken at the hands of Longbottom—there was another who would warrant his personal vengeance—though he did discuss Professor Snape's actions to help save Granger, making sure that the Dark Lord understood his outrage at the fact that one of their own had sullied his hands in saving a Mudblood. Throughout the entirety of his recitation the Dark Lord said not a word—which was not exactly encouraging—though his facial expression did not change—which was.

When he fell silent after explaining all he could remember, Draco forced himself to maintain his composure, though he was distinctly uncomfortable under the Dark Lord's scrutiny. At his side he could also feel Bellatrix's eyes upon him, which did not help in the slightest.

"I believe that Severus is correct," the Dark Lord finally said, as he turned and settled into his throne. It was set upon a dais which, although he was now seated, still gave him the advantage of height and forced Draco to look up at him. "You _do_ have an unfortunate tendency to underestimate your enemies."

Draco longed to retort that Potter was nothing but a pitiful Halfblood, but he held his temper in check—it would do no good to lash out in front of the Dark Lord.

"Good," the Dark Lord continued with a nod of approval. "You can hold your tongue when you choose. _That_ is a necessary skill, young Malfoy, and you would do well to remember it."

"Yes, My Lord," Draco replied. "But I'm concerned." The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow, and Draco took that as sufficient encouragement to continue. "It's Professor Snape. I don't think he's being faithful to you, My Lord."

"And why do you say that?" the Dark Lord asked. His tone was mild, but there was a hint in his eyes of displeasure and, perhaps, impatience. Still, Draco had already started to speak of this, and now he had no choice but to continue. "He helped heal the Mudblood when she probably would have died. He's also been easier on Potter this year. I just don't think he's as loyal as he wants you to believe."

"Is it not Slytherin to try to play both sides in order to come out on top?" the Dark Lord asked rhetorically. "If Severus is doing this, then I can only commend him for his cunning and his resourcefulness. If _all_ my followers were so capable, we would have routed Dumbledore and the Ministry long ago.

"However, in this instance I can assure you that Severus is doing precisely as I have asked. What you do not take into account is that Severus is in a very difficult position; he must act like he is in Dumbledore's camp, feeding him disinformation where necessary, while in actuality, he reports on every move Dumbledore and Potter make. Though saving the Mudblood was undoubtedly distasteful, if he had refused, it would have incited Dumbledore's suspicions. I suspect that is also the reason for his changed treatment of Potter. He hates the boy even more than you do, Draco, and you would be wise to remember that."

Draco bowed his head, aware that the Dark Lord had spoken and would brook no further discussion on the matter.

"What we must concentrate upon now is the prosecution of the war," the Dark Lord continued. "And make no mistake—with our actions this day we are now in the opening stages of war against the Ministry and Dumbledore. He and Potter must both be handled very carefully."

"But surely Potter is no match for you, Master," Draco blurted, unable to hold himself in check any longer.

"A match for me?" the Dark Lord said with a derisive snort. "Of course he is not. Beyond the fact that he is a lad of fifteen, very few can even pretend to be a match for me. But that does not mean that I underestimate him." The Dark Lord's eyes were piercing and his gaze was focused. "Harry Potter has defied me on several separate occasions, and though he has been able to escape with a judicious amount of luck, he is certainly not to be taken lightly. Your own experiences with him should have told you this."

Draco bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"And what of your companions, Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle?" the Dark Lord asked.

Though somewhat taken aback by the sudden change in subject, Draco gamely met the Dark Lord's eyes and replied, "They went after Potter by themselves. I told them to stay away and not do anything, but apparently they didn't listen. I told no one of what I was going to do, as you had instructed."

"Yes, they told me much the same thing," the Dark Lord responded. "I have already questioned them and they have received their punishment. As they are no longer of any use to me at Hogwarts, they are now part of my regular forces, though they will both need to prove themselves to me before I honor them with the Dark Mark."

"They're here?" Draco asked.

"They are," the Dark Lord replied. "But you do not need to concern yourself with them. I have another assignment in mind for you."

"Anything, My Lord," Draco replied fervently.

"If nothing else, I've never had to question your eagerness," the Dark Lord replied, this time with a hint of amusement staining his voice. "I must admit—that pleases me.

"Now, from this time forward you will receive your aunt's personal instruction, as well as my own. When the time is right, I shall tell you of your mission. If you are successful, you may have your vengeance upon not only the Mudblood, but also on Potter."

"I would like that very much, My Lord," said Draco, unable to contain the excitement in his voice.

"Very well," the Dark Lord said as he waved a negligent hand at him, apparently ending the interview. "Bellatrix will assign you to your quarters. Learn everything you can from her, Draco—the time will soon be right for us to make our move."

Bowing, Draco once again followed his aunt from the room, elated at this chance he was being given to prove himself. Potter and Granger would rue the day they were born before he was done with them.

* * *

At Hogwarts, the wait after Jean-Sebastian's return was perhaps even more excruciating than it was even before when there was no news whatsoever. Whereas that had been difficult, still, the lack of news either way allowed one to at least hope that the Death Eaters were being beaten back, though not knowing did allow the imagination to run wild. The news Jean-Sebastian had brought with him had helped in that it had reassured them that the Ministry had beaten back the attack, but almost as soon as he had arrived, other information began to trickle in, and though it was not much, it was enough to begin building a picture of what had happened that day.

It quickly became clear that the day's events had been the start of a major campaign against magical Britain, a campaign designed to gain a quick victory over the Ministry's forces and bring about a shift in the balance of power. The attack at the Ministry had obviously failed in its ultimate objective to oust the Ministry from the building, take over the various tools the Ministry used in its governance of the country, and capture the Minister herself. However, on another level the attack had been a complete success—there was now a level of uncertainty, accompanied by the whispers and hushed conversations, not to mention the feelings outright fear betrayed on the faces of any students in the school. Harry could not help but imagine that the scene was being replayed all across the country, as news of the attacks spread.

And Harry did not miss the looks of smug satisfaction on the faces of several of the Slytherins, though he thought, somewhat sardonically, that it really _was not_ Slytherin to allow one's emotions to show so openly. It was only the Malfoy Slytherins, he supposed, who were easy to read in such a manner—the rest of the house betrayed nothing, though many were caught up in the speculation with the rest of the school. There were undoubtedly sympathizers among them, but it was much more difficult to determine who they were.

By the time Harry returned to the Great Hall after Jean-Sebastian's arrival, it appeared like word of the French Ambassador's arrival at the school had made the rounds, an the speculation over what it actually meant was rife. The fact that Harry had spoken with the Professor McGonagall and had subsequently lessened the number of patrols had been telling. The members of the club were then allowed to rotate through the Great Hall to allow them to get some dinner, but the rest of the student body was still kept in the hall, as they did not know for certain that the danger was over. It was midway through the early dinner the house-elves provided when another unexpected arrival startled Harry.

They were summoned to the anteroom off to the side of the hall where he had gone the previous year the opening night of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and when he arrived there, his face lit up with pleasure.

"Remus!" he exclaimed, catching his unofficial uncle in a bear-hug. "When did you get back?"

Pulling back from him, Remus peered at him, making Harry uncomfortable with the scrutiny. "You've changed, Pup," the man replied.

For Harry, that brought back the memory of the _exact reason_ for Remus's recent absence, and it sobered him. "Did you find something?"

"We did," he replied, motioning to Tonks, who stood off to one side, gazing at Harry fondly.

"Hey, Harry," Tonks greeted him.

"Anyway, I'd prefer to avoid having to explain it more than once. We'll all get together after Dumbledore returns. Until then, I think Tonks and I would prefer to get a little rest. It's been a long day."

Awash with curiosity—after all, this was his very life they were discussing!—Harry nonetheless realized that Remus had a point, and so resolved to be patient. Very soon after, McGonagall had made arrangements, and Remus and Tonks left, while assuring Harry that they would speak again later that evening.

It was soon after their arrival that a company of Aurors arrived to take over the security of the school, and with the Deputy Headmistress's approval, the remaining club members still out on patrols were called back, and very soon thereafter, the students were allowed to leave the Great Hall and return to their common rooms.

Harry ate his dinner in the company of Hermione and his other friends, but though he ate a hearty meal, he could not have said later just exactly what it was he had consumed. The food was good as it always was, but his mind was on the fact that Remus had returned. He would soon learn if he would ever be rid of this piece of Voldemort's soul stuck in his head, and the waiting—which he had not even noticed when the duo had been away—was causing him to be somewhat irritable, though he was careful not to take his poor mood out on his friends.

After eating his dinner, Harry decided that he would take his mood away from the rest of his friends and he, along with Hermione, made his way toward the hospital wing, hoping to take his mind off of things. Unfortunately, things were every bit as unsettled in the Hospital wing as they had been in the Great Hall. As they were approaching the familiar doors, Harry heard raised voices issuing from the room and, with a glance at Hermione, they hurried forward, wondering what the ruckus was about.

"I tell you I need to get out of this bed!" Jean-Sebastian was saying, as he struggled against both Fleur and the matron, who were trying to hold him there.

"You cannot!" Madam Pomfrey replied in the shrill voice of someone who had already repeated herself several times. "You need to remain here overnight or you will do yourself further harm!"

"Papa, I'm sure Maman and Gabrielle are fine," Fleur exclaimed, though her expression was tight with worry.

"What has happened?" Harry demanded as he stepped into the room.

The struggle ceased for a moment as all three occupants of the room turn to look at the newcomers. Harry ignored their expressions and stepped forward, a ball of worry forming in the pit of his stomach.

"What's going on?" he asked again.

Jean-Sebastian settled back into his bed with a pained grimace, and Fleur turned to Harry—it was only then that he noticed the tears staining her cheeks. "The manor was attacked," she replied, another sparkling tear running down her face. "And even worse—Voldemort was there."

Harry stared at her in consternation, thinking of the fate which Hermione had been spared, knowing that if Gabrielle and Apolline had been captured that they would share that fate. The thought of it was almost more than he could bear—Apolline had become a treasured mother figure to him since the summer and Gabrielle was the irrepressible little sister they all wanted to protect. The thought of them in the hands of those monsters…

"Are they okay?" Hermione asked into the silence.

"We don't know," Fleur said, sitting heavily down on the side of the bed. Galvanized by his love's look of utter desolation, Harry quickly moved to Fleur's side and put an arm around her shoulder, offering her whatever comfort he was able. She shuddered, but leaned into him, and bringing herself under control, added, "The Auror who told us didn't have any details—just that there have been many attacks today. That Voldemort had the audacity to attack a foreign ambassador's residence…"

"I'll hang the bastard by his own entrails," Jean-Sebastian snarled as he once again attempted to rise from the bed, only to sink down again with a groan when he moved something in the wrong direction.

"And _that_ is what I've been trying to tell you," Madam Pomfrey said, waving her wand over her intractable patient, "you're not in any shape to do anything about anyone's entrails, and if you aren't careful, I'll have to put your own back into you!"

"Madam, I have to see to my wife," Jean-Sebastian said with some affront.

"Let the Headmaster handle the situation—you are in no condition to do so at the moment."

Jean-Sebastian allowed himself to pushed back onto the bed, though not without protest, and Fleur turned toward Hermione, an apprehensive expression of concern on her face.

"That's not all," she said. "The Auror also informed us that the Weasley home, Luna's home, Neville's home, and the homes of many of Voldemort's enemies and some Muggleborns were also targeted."

"My parents?" Hermione breathed with dread coloring her voice.

"Yes," Fleur replied simply.

"But… but…" Hermione tightened up as tears welled up in her eyes as she fought for composure. Then she seemed to latch onto a hopeful thought and she blurted, "Professor Dumbledore made sure they had portkeys!"

"We hope they escaped," Jean-Sebastian spoke up from where Madam Pomfrey was still working on him. "But we haven't had any confirmation yet."

Now with two upset witches to console, Harry tightened his grip about Fleur for an instant. He looked down at her and, perhaps sensing his question, she smiled tremulously and motioned him to go and comfort Hermione as well. Not needing a second invitation, Harry disengaged himself from his betrothed and gathered Hermione up into a tight embrace, which she returned with equal fervor.

"We need to tell the Weasleys," Harry said over Hermione's head. "Neville and Luna also need to be told."

"Maybe we should wait until we have more news?" Hermione said, gaining control over her emotions, but still sniffling.

Harry shook his head firmly. "They would want to know," he replied simply.

"Dobby!"

The hyperactive house elf popped into the room, but for once he appeared subdued, as though he knew and understood what was happening. Rather than almost maul Harry with his enthusiasm as he normally did, he stood there regarding them all with an atypical gravity.

"Harry Potter be's calling Dobby?"

"Dobby, can you ask Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom and the Weasleys to come to here, please?"

"Dobby be's doing it." With that, he popped out.

For the next hour, the group waited for news, and though the situation was uncomfortable, they took comfort and strength in one another. Their friends arrived in the hospital wing soon after Dobby had left to fetch them, and though they were all distressed by the news, they assured Harry that they preferred to know, rather than to hear it after the fact, especially if there were any injuries or, Merlin forbid, fatalities. Neville and the Weasleys took the news stoically, though with a certain level of worried concern, perhaps more on the part of the Weasleys than Neville—Longbottom Manor was an old residence with robust wards, after all, while the Burrow was not nearly as well protected.

Luna took the news with the most serenity. She sidled up to Neville and put an arm around him in a gesture of support, but when she spoke to the group, she merely said, "Daddy is away in Slovenia searching for the Crumple-Horned Snorkak. I do hate to lose my home, but at least it can be replaced."

That sentiment voiced the feelings of the rest. The Weasley siblings knew that it was likely that only their mother was at home, though their father had almost certainly been at the Ministry that day, while Neville was not certain what had been on his grandmother's agenda. Hermione was aware of the fact that her parents often took lunch at their home, as it was very close to their dental surgery, but she also knew that they had been serious about carrying their portkeys once the danger had been adequately explained to them, so she was hopeful that they had managed to escape in time. But though the ambassador's manor should have had been protected with some very strong wards, the appearance of Voldemort was the wild card. Apolline was a very capable witch in her own right and she had not only portkeys, but also the French Floo at her disposal as escape routes. She _should_ have been able to escape quickly. It was the unknown factor which weighed upon them all.

They waited in this attitude, offering each other support and comfort, until after the normal dinner hour, each anxious for news, while understanding that the events of the day were such that news might be a while coming. Thus, when Professor Dumbledore entered the room, the tension had risen and it was hardly a surprise when he was accosted by a number of voices, all clamoring for information on their loved ones.

"Everyone, please calm down," Dumbledore replied to the deluge of voices. "Though there were bumps and bruises, no one—other than our inestimable ambassador—was injured to any great extent."

More than a few sighs of relief. "Thank you," Dumbledore said as he pulled a chair close to where the others were situated around Jean-Sebastian's bed. "If you will all give me a moment, I will tell you—briefly—what has happened today.

"First, Ambassador, Fleur, I can tell you that Apolline and Gabrielle escaped through the French Floo to France. Your Minister has been in contact with Minister Bones and has reported that they are safe, though Apolline did emerge a little bruised from her encounter."

"What happened?" Jean-Sebastian demanded. "Those wards should have been able to withstand an attack long enough for them to simply escape. What happened to the security detail?"

"Unfortunately I do not have much information," Dumbledore replied. "The most troubling aspect of what I do know is that one of your Auror escort was working for Voldemort, but I have no further information than that.

"What?" Jean-Sebastian exploded in anger. "Who was it? I'll have the bastard's head!"

"Unfortunately, I cannot tell you that," was Dumbledore's mild response. "The Auror department is investigating now. I will let you know the moment I receive any information."

Turning to the Weasleys, Dumbledore continued, "Your mother was at home during the attack, but she escaped to Grimmauld Place using her portkey. I can also tell you that your father emerged unscathed at the Ministry."

"And Percy?" one of the twins asked.

Dumbledore frowned. "I have not heard a thing about Percy, though I believe he was not among the dead or injured. I will inquire to the Minister and let you know."

The Weasley children nodded, while Dumbledore turned to Hermione. "As for your parents, my dear, they also realized what was happening and were able to portkey to Grimmauld. They are currently there with Mrs. Weasley."

A deep sigh of relief left Hermione's lungs, and Harry squeezed her to him in support, bringing both of his girls in close to him. A part of him could not help but recollect that his parents had not been so lucky all those years ago, but he could not help but be happy and thankful that neither girl had lost anyone close to them.

"And finally, Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore continued, turning to Neville, "your grandmother was in the Ministry today down in the courtrooms. The Death Eaters essentially ignored the lower levels, as they concentrated on the Administrative section and the Auror office. Madam Longbottom is safe and well."

Neville said nothing—he merely nodded his understanding, while holding Luna closer to him. Dumbledore smiled kindly at the two, and turned to Luna, "I believe you are aware of your father's location?"

"Well, not his exact location at this very moment," the ethereal blond replied. "I would hope that he's managed to find a Snorkak by now, but I'm sure if it was necessary, he would let me know _exactly_ where he was."

Harry noticed a few stifled chuckles at the blond's rather literal reply, but Dumbledore only smiled and nodded to the girl. He turned back to the entire group and for the first time, Harry noticed exactly how tired he appeared. He was not a young man any longer, and the day's events had obviously taken their toll upon him.

"As for what happened at the Ministry, I am afraid a brief mention of it is all I am able to impart at this time."

With that he launched into a description of the day's events, focusing on what he had found upon arriving at the Ministry, the fight to take control back from the Death Eaters, and a few of the discoveries they had made once the battle had been won. He did not go into any great detail—not that they would have expected him to as, undoubtedly, there were things which would be considered confidential—but he gave them an overall picture of what had happened.

As he listened to the professor's tale, Harry felt a somber mood fall over him. There had been so much destruction, so much loss of life that day, and all because of a megalomaniacal criminal with a delusional vision of the world and a need to impose his wishes upon others. Never had Harry hated another person like he hated Voldemort at that moment.

"There is one other thing of which I need to inform you," Dumbledore said, his voice as grave as it had been at any time during the tale. "Draco Malfoy has escaped."

Harry felt a surge of anger—he should have simply done away with the ferret when he had the chance! His anger, however, was instantly cooled at the gasp Hermione made by his side. The boy who tormented her, kidnapped her, and had ultimately attempted to kill her was now again at large.

"It would not do to worry over much, Miss Granger," the Headmaster said kindly. "Mr. Malfoy cannot enter this school again, so you are safe from him. We shall apprehend him, when his master is brought to justice. You may rest assured of that."

Though obviously still a little shaken, Hermione nodded her head gamely. Professor Dumbledore moved on to other things and within a few moments, when he had finished his recitation, he smiled tiredly at the group before offering a little perspective. "I know this day has been hard on us all, but try to remember the bright side; the Dark Lord's forces were largely beaten back, and none of you has lost loved ones this day. That is something to be grateful for.

"Now, if you will all excuse me, I believe I require sustenance, after which, I still have much to do."

"Professor Dumbledore," Harry spoke up. "What about Remus? He said he had some information."

"Ah, Harry, I had hoped that Remus had arrived without your knowledge so that you would not me worried. I am sorry to make you wait but I believe that we must table this discussion until tomorrow evening. There is still much to do, and putting the Ministry to rights must take precedence."

Harry was disappointed, but he knew that the Headmaster was correct. A few short words later, and Dumbledore left, after which the rest of the group began to break up. Harry shared a few words with Fleur, who indicated that she wanted to remain with her father, before he followed the Weasleys from the room, in the company of the ever-present Hermione. They walked in silence for several moments, Hermione seemingly introspective, while Harry fumed at the wanton death and destruction meted out that day. He was also a little upset that he and the club had uselessly patrolled against a phantom attack, while others had fought, bled and died that day. It all seemed so useless.

"What's wrong, Harry?" Hermione said from where she walked by his side.

He turned to her and explained his thoughts, thinking, a little ruefully, that Hermione had always been able to read his moods.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said to him, slipping an affectionate arm around his waist. "You can't do everything, you know. We played our parts the best we could today. There's nothing else we could have done."

"I know that, Hermione," Harry said. "But I just can't help but think how meaningless this all is. Voldemort's out there killing, and we're stuck here. I just wish that I could face him and have it all done with, you know?"

"I know, Harry. But keep up your spirits. After all, we're the good guys—we're supposed to win, you know?"

Chuckling, Harry pulled Hermione close as they continued down that hall. How lucky was he that he had such a wonderful girl—_two wonderful girls!_—to keep him grounded. He would not trade either of them for anything.

* * *

Fleur watched as Harry left the room in the company of Hermione and the intense feelings of jealousy which she had been suppressing once again flared into being. Harry was so close to Hermione, they were so in tune with each other; it was almost like they were two people sharing one mind. How was she to fight against that?

It was made worse by the fact that Fleur knew that she really had nothing to be jealous of. Harry esteemed her and loved her—of that she was certain. But every time she was forced to witness their interactions with one another, she could not help but compare her relationship with Harry to the one he shared with Hermione, and invariably, hers simply did not measure up. And furthermore, she was coming to the opinion that whatever Harry felt for her, it would simply never equal what he felt for Hermione.

And that was the entire crux of the problem; she loved Harry—she truly did. The serious, sincere, fiercely protective, and genuinely loveable boy had wormed her way into her heart. In fact, there had been no worming at all—he had blazed into her life with the force of a falling meteor, effortlessly grasping her love and taking it for his own, as though she had no choice whatsoever in the matter. But the question she had asked herself over and over again in the past day and a half—had it truly only been that long?—was whether she could live in a relationship where such a disparity of feelings existed. Could she forever be bound to Harry, knowing that he loved another more than he loved her? Would her own love for him be enough to offset the feelings of jealousy which would always be a part of her?

Fleur had no answers. In fact, she was rapidly coming to fear what she suspected the answers to be. For the first time since the previous summer, she cursed her impulsive decision to allow Hermione a place in their family, even though it had been done with altruistic intentions. If she had never asked Hermione, and even if she had had to ultimately share Harry's love with another, at least the other might not have been Hermione—she might have started on an even footing with whoever it was. Even Ginny Weasley would be an improvement on the situation, as Harry had certainly not been in love _with her_ when this contract had been enacted.

"You have become rather quiet now, my dear," her father spoke, startling Fleur. She looked up to see her father watching her with a shrewd eye, and though he tone was light, he had a knowing look about him, one which she knew well—it generally meant that he knew that something was bothering her, and that he was willing to help her through her troubles if necessary.

A trifle embarrassed, and not wanting to reveal her thoughts to her father, Fleur merely smiled wanly and attempted to deflect his observation. "It has been a hard day for us all, Papa."

"It has," her father agreed. "But I think that is not what has been occupying your attention." His gaze bored into her and Fleur felt like a small child who had been caught in the candy jar. "What is bothering you, Fleur?"

"It is nothing, Father."

Jean-Sebastian regarded her for several moments before he spoke. "Fleur, if you truly do not want to speak of it, I understand. But I have often found that it is helpful to speak to one sympathetic rather than try to work through all of our problems on our own. Perhaps I can help you."

The idea that leapt to her mind of how _he_ particularly could help was unexpected, as Fleur truly had not thought of if before, at least consciously. Unfortunately, the idea issued from her lips before she could truly consider it, or consider the effect it would have on her father, or indeed on her own life.

"Maybe it would be better if we ended this marriage contract."

Her words settled between them like a dead weight, and Fleur could feel the weight of her father's gaze upon her.

"Why would you want to do that?"

Struggling to rein in her thoughts, Fleur looked away and attempted to backtrack. "I shouldn't have said that."

"But you did," her father said quietly.

"It's nothing, Papa. Please—"

"No Fleur. I want to know why you feel this way. Come—tell me what has happened. I had thought your relationship with Harry was progressing nicely."

Sighing, and well aware that she could not put him off in this matter, Fleur explained, "_It is_. Harry is a wonderful young man, and everything I could ever want."

"Then why would you want to end your betrothal?"

"Because he doesn't love me as much as he loves Hermione."

There. She had said it—given words and life to the fear which had gradually been building within her since Harry had hared off from the Great Hall to save Hermione. Would he have done it for her? The answer was that, undoubtedly, he would have. But would he have been as single-minded or as focused? And had she died, would he have felt the same level of sadness and despair he would have felt for Hermione had _she_ died? Fleur was honest enough with herself to admit that she was not certain. However, she was very much afraid that she knew the answer to both questions, and that neither would be in her favor.

"I was afraid of that," her father said into the silence. "I believe, my dear daughter, that you bit off perhaps a little more than you can chew."

Jolted out of her own thoughts, Fleur focused her attention on her father. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you should have worked on building a relationship with Harry before you got anyone else involved. Your relationship with Harry was too uncertain to bring in even more uncertainty."

"You knew?" Fleur asked.

"Your mother told me," was her father's simple answer. "I was worried that something like this might happen."

"So you knew and you didn't say anything?" Fleur was beginning to get a little cross.

"By the time I knew, you had already taken the step forward," her father replied. "And besides—you are now of age and capable of making your own decisions. Of course I wish to protect you and Gabrielle—even from yourselves!—but you also both need to learn life's lessons on your own."

He fell silent again, and Fleur was left to her own shame—she should not have spoken to him in such a manner. He was right. This mess was one of her own making, and she was cognizant of the fact that in hindsight, he was completely correct. She wished now she had gone to him for advice, or at least had taken the time to think about it in a little more depth. Now, it seemed, she would be required to pay the price—perhaps for the rest of her life.

"How long have you felt his way?" he asked.

"Since yesterday," Fleur admitted. "I started wondering if he would ever feel for me what he feels for her when he raced off to save her."

"That's a remarkably short amount of time to leap to such a conclusion," Jean-Sebastian commented. "And a remarkably emotional and exceptional situation on which to base your feelings, Fleur."

Fleur acknowledged his reproof. Unfortunately, it did not sway her in the slightest. She recognized that subconsciously she had thought of this in the past, and though she had ruthlessly suppressed all such feelings, they still existed. The fact of the matter was that she was now afraid—very afraid—and she was not certain what she could do. The idea of giving Harry up was painful, but the thought of forever being second in his heart was intolerable. It seemed like an awful choice was before her, and she did not know what she should do.

"Let me tell you a story, Fleur," her father said, once again interrupting her thoughts. "When your mother and I began to become serious about our relationship, do you know what she did?" When Fleur shook her head he continued, "She urged me to consider taking a second wife as well."

Though she had not known this, Fleur was not exactly shocked—her father would have faced the same choices that Harry had, after all.

"I admit I considered the idea for some time, and even made a few half-hearted attempts at getting to know other women. But I decided in the end that I just couldn't do it. You see, by that time, I loved your mother and could not consider the possibility of loving another as much as I did her."

Fleur frowned. "Are you saying that Harry should love only me?" she asked. "Or are you saying he's wrong for agreeing to my suggestion?"

"Not in the slightest." Her father looked on her with some compassion. "Every one is different, after all, and what may be good for one person, is not necessarily good for another. Harry is a wonderful young man who is very good for you, I believe. But you have to contend with something your mother never had—Harry already had a love in his life when he met you, whereas I have never loved anyone other than your mother. And then there is the contract to consider…

"What I am trying to say, Fleur, is that I don't necessarily understand the pressures you face, not having faced them myself. But I can tell you that whatever you have conjured up in your fear, that Harry is not indifferent to you."

"I _know_ that," Fleur said. Even to herself she had to admit that her response seemed to be a trifle sulky.

"Then what do your vaunted Veela senses tell you?"

Sighing, Fleur turned her head away from him. "That he loves me. That he loves Hermione. What I can't determine is the degree he feels for each of us."

"Has he told you he loved you?"

"No."

"And Hermione?"

"I…" Fleur paused, considering the situation. "I think so, but I'm not sure."

"If he has, it's only to be expected. He has a longer history with her. But that does not mean that he cannot love you like he loves her."

"I know." Fleur felt tears rolling down her cheeks, but she ignored them, focusing instead on her roiling emotions. "But I'm so very _afraid_ he won't."

Sitting up a little, her father grasped her arm and pulled her to him, cradling her to his chest. Though Fleur's tears continued, she forced herself to continue to consider the matter in a rational manner. Her father was correct, and she knew that Harry did love her. Did it truly matter if his love for her equaled his love for Hermione in every respect? Was she truly making something more of this than she needed to?

"Fleur," her father spoke up again. "I am going to give you some advice that I hope very much you will follow."

Though she did not speak, Fleur nodded her head, waiting for him to continue.

"First, I want you to speak with your mother about this. You are of age, of course, but your mother has many more years of experience, not only life experience, but also experience with these powers of yours. She can help you."

"I had already decided to ask for mother's help," Fleur replied quietly.

"Good. Second, and perhaps most important, I want you to speak to Harry before you decide anything. He's a good young man and I believe he values your happiness. Speak to him. Tell him what you are feeling. Show him what he means to you. I don't think you will be disappointed."

"I will, Papa," Fleur agreed.

She drew away from him and gave him a tremulous smile as he wiped the tears from her cheeks. "How could Harry not love you?" he asked affectionately. "You are a wonderful young woman, Fleur. Any man would be fortunate to have your love."

Fleur blushed and looked away.

When her father spoke again, his voice was serious, though pensive. "You are aware that it is possible to end the contract, and if it's really what you want, I will speak with Sirius. We are, by now, tied together closely enough that the betrothal is no longer required to keep our alliance intact, and it has served its purpose in allowing me to take guardianship over Harry.

"But I want you to be happy, and I'm convinced that you will be happy with Harry. Give him a chance, Fleur. I do not think that you will be disappointed."

Feeling lighter than she had all day, Fleur smiled and thanked him for his words of wisdom. After a few moments she departed the hospital wing, leaving him to rest. As she made her way to the common room, Fleur thought about the things her father had told her, determined to follow through on her promises. Furthermore, she meant to find a certain green-eyed betrothed of hers and spend some time that evening in close proximity to him. She would not speak to him just yet of what she was feeling—she would wait until after speaking with her mother—but there was nothing stopping her from expressing her feelings, and receiving his in turn. Just maybe she would be able to puzzle it all out for herself. At least if her head would stop warring with her heart.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Continued thanks to everyone still following this tale. We're nearing the end of the third quarter and heading into the fourth. The game is definitely afoot!

2. I will not prolong Fleur's agony for long—her doubts get resolved in the next chapter. I tried to put in some foreshadowing of her feelings in previous chapters, but a few people mentioned that they thought that her problems seemed to come out of the blue. Maybe I didn't make it plain enough. Regardless, I do think it's natural for her to have these doubts, and I think her relationship with Harry needed a bit of a rocky stretch, as it's mostly been sunshine and roses throughout the story. Again, the angst ends very soon.

3. So I'd like to ask everyone's opinion about something. One of the most common complaints I've had through the course of this story is that I sometimes gloss over a some things in a few paragraphs of descriptive text, rather than digging into a scene in more depth. In the first section, I did that with respect to the attacks on the Grangers and the Burrow.

Recognizing that, I thought for some time about writing a couple of short sections to describe exactly what happened and even had some ideas in my head for how they would have played out. In the end, I (obviously) decided not to for a couple of reasons. The most important reason is that what happens at the Grangers' and the Burrow really does not matter—the fact that they make it out alive is important, but nothing else happens in either one of those two situations which will affect the story later on. Adding some additional scenes just seemed to be added fluff which was not needed.

I'd be interested to hear the readers' opinions—do you think the story would have benefited from adding them in, or should it stand the way it is. If enough people are interested and want to know exactly what happened, I'll write the two scenes and post them when I post the next chapter. It's your chance to influence the story in a small way, so please let me know!


	56. Chapter 55 – Betrothal in the Balance

**Previously: **Aurors discover that the Death Eaters managed to set up portkey wards in the Ministry to prevent escape. Draco is brought before the Dark Lord and is made to recount what happened with Hermione. He is told that if he trains hard, he will be given an opportunity to have his revenge. Dumbledore returns to Hogwarts and informs Harry and his friends of what has happened, including the fact that Apolline, the Grangers, and the Weasleys are all safe. Fleur speaks with her father about her doubts about Harry's feelings for her. Jean-Sebastian urges her to discuss the matter with her mother before making any rash decisions.

* * *

**Chapter 55 – Betrothal in the Balance**

Alaric Morgan walked the halls of the Ministry pondering the events of the previous day, considering the fact that had things been even slightly different, how his role in what had happened might have been changed. As it was, he had been very little threatened by the attack—he had been part of a judicial panel and had been engaged in the courtrooms, which, though it had been cut off from the rest of the Ministry, had at least been unaffected for the most part. Of course, had he actually been elected to the Minister's office, he supposed the Ministry would not have been attacked at all. But that did not in any way mitigate what had happened.

Of the Death Eaters' actions, Alaric could not think with anything but abhorrence. He had heard stories of the first war, and had understood that the Death Eaters had done things which could only be deemed as wrong, disgusting, and even immoral. At the time, however, though he had not agreed with their methods, he had thought he understood how love of their society could be pushed to such actions.

In his heart Alaric still believed that Muggleborns must be purged from the magical world and made to stay in the world in which they had been raised. Or, the other alternative would be to remove them from their parents at birth and give them to Wizarding families so that they could be brought up in the magical world—he had never truly believed, as the bigots did, that Muggleborns were somehow intrinsically inferior due to the fact that they were the first in the family tree to be blessed with magic. The parents of Muggleborns certainly would not be affected should their children be taken away, as they could simply be obliviated, and the children would undoubtedly grow up happier, as they would understand the gift that they had been given, rather than only learning at the age of eleven. In Alaric's mind, the true danger was the mixing of the two worlds which was accomplished by taking those raised in the Muggle world, and allowing them into the magical world, not to mention all the Muggle family members who would necessarily become aware of the magical world by their association.

Whichever way was chosen, that mixing must be brought to an end, so that the magical world could become more secure, not only against their presence being betrayed to the Muggles, but also against the influx of dangerous ideas. Such so-called progressive Muggle thoughts had no place in the magical world, as those who were raised by Muggles could not possibly understand the history and conventions of the magical world. No, it was far better for the two to be kept firmly and irrevocably apart.

But the forces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had crossed a line, and now that he had seen for himself first hand just exactly what they espoused, he was relieved that he had chosen the right course and refused to fall in with their schemes. They were little more than thugs and those out for their own gain, and Alaric in his heart, truly wanted only for what was best for his world as a whole.

But never in all his years of politics had Alaric expected to support Albus Dumbledore in the political arena. The man was a hero, it was true, and he was truly a force for right and virtue, but his aims were far too open for Alaric. He did not support an integration with the Muggle world, as some few extremists suggested, but he was far too welcoming of Muggleborns, and supportive of the continual ties they kept with their Muggle families. And yet circumstances sometimes meant that opponents must support one another, regardless of their differing opinions. It was a case of the Greater Good, as Albus Dumbledore liked to say. Alaric did not know if it was actually, but Dumbledore's way was certainly better than the one which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named espoused.

Today was to be another day in the courtrooms, trying petty criminals those whose crimes could in no way be compared with what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had commanded in the name of blood purity. There had been some suggestion that perhaps such activities should be suspended, at least for a few days while the Ministry was put back on its feet, but Minister Bones had insisted they continue with their normal business. It would be wise to appear to the world that nothing would stop them from continuing the business of governance, regardless of the actions of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Stepping into the lift, Alaric pushed the indicator for the tenth level, and waited for the doors to close. When they finally did and the lift began to descend, he looked around in boredom. It was the same thing he had seen nearly every day when he had made his way through the Ministry building, and nothing had changed that day.

Of course, that was when the lift suddenly stopped.

Catching his balance, Alaric looked up in time to see a face emerge from beneath what was obviously an invisibility cloak. The face was accompanied by a wand, which was pointed directly at him.

"You!" Alaric cried as he recognized the face staring back at him.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

The brilliant green spell impacted with him from pointblank range and Alaric, head of house Morgan, knew no more.

* * *

"Minister Bones, you need to see this."

Amelia looked up from her desk and the documents she was studying. Having slept in her office the previous night—she had transfigured her chair into a small cot to sleep for a few hours—she found herself bone tired. There was just so much to be done in putting the Ministry back in order; it would literally take months for everything to be put to rights, and that was if they could stem the tide of Voldemort's forces. There had already been two more attacks that morning—not to mention three which had occurred overnight—and the mood of the entire society seemed to have reached the hysteria of the first war with stunning speed.

"What is it Director?" Amelia asked, half rising from her desk.

Kingsley grimaced and motioned for her to follow him. "There has been an attack in the building."

Eyes afire, Amelia followed Shacklebolt from the office and they made their way through the lifts as he guided her toward the scene. "The body was discovered a few minutes ago by one of the clerks in the DMLE who was heading down to the courtrooms with some documents."

"Who was it?" Amelia asked.

"I think you'll understand the significance when we get there."

They arrived at the lifts to a hive of activity. Several Aurors were in the area, guarding one of the elevators which had been removed from service, while some were snapping pictures of the site, and others were combing the area for any missed information.

Robards, who appeared to be directing the investigation, nodded his head when he noticed her approach. "Minister. I should warn you in advance—it's not a pretty scene."

"I've likely seen worse, Gawain," Amelia replied wryly.

As Amelia stepped into the entrance of the lift, the first thing she noticed was the body, a person she recognized immediately. Alaric Morgan was splayed out on the floor, vacant eyes open staring sightlessly at the ceiling. His shirt and front torso were rent open by a number of ugly-looking slashes, but though the damage to the body was extensive, there was relatively little blood, telling Amelia that he had likely been killed by the killing curse first. The reason for the slashes, however, was revealed in the blood red writing on the wall of the lift.

_Thus perish all traitors to the Dark Lord's cause!_

"Retaliation for his support of the executions?" Amelia surmised.

"That's what we suspect," Kingsley replied. "Whoever killed him, it appears like he was confronted on his way down to the courtrooms, where he was scheduled to participate in several tribunal trials this morning."

That piqued Amelia's interest. "Could there have also been a motive to delay a trial?"

"Unlikely," Kingsley answered. "I checked the docket this morning, and there are no trials of anyone suspected of having any affiliation with Voldemort's forces. It seems to be a revenge killing designed to show that Voldemort can reach anyone, anywhere."

"Question the defendants with Veritaserum. We should remove that as a motive and we might actually catch another supporter or two."

Kingsley nodded. "Of course, Minister."

Turning back to the body, Amelia studied it for several moments. "What is the status of our Auror and Hit Wizard corps?"

"Stretched thin," Robards replied. "We've stepped up patrols in some of the major magical locations, including Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, St. Mungos, among others. We've also stationed extra guards at various locations within the building."

"We've especially concentrated on Diagon Alley," Shacklebolt spoke up. "You know what happened during the last war; the alley is a fat target, waiting to be hit."

Amelia grimaced, but acknowledged Kingsley's point.

"We need to better protect our workers within this building," Amelia stated with a hint of steel, choosing to focus on that which they could influence at the moment. "I want you both to look at further patrols or methods we can use to attain greater coverage within the building. Let's make it more difficult for them to target workers in out of the way places."

Shacklebolt and Robards glanced at each other, but they acquiesced readily enough. Not for the first time Amelia cursed Fudge and his insistence on hiding his head in the sand. If they had begun to ramp up recruitment when Potter had returned with the tale of Voldemort's return, they would have a batch of new recruits which had at least received some training—at least enough to take on some of the patrolling of the building from their regular forces. The way it was now, they had no extra manpower on which to fall back.

"One other thing," Amelia stated as she turned to make her way back to her office. "Sweeping the Ministry for Death Eaters has now become a priority. I want your plan to do so on my desk by the end of the day tomorrow."

"Of course, Minister."

* * *

"Are you certain you want to do this? You know that Jean-Sebastian will not be pleased."

Apolline Delacour smiled at the French Minister. He was a good man, guiding the country with skill and adept leadership, but never losing sight of the people he governed. He was also a great friend of Jean-Sebastian's, the two of them having known each other since the time they were boys.

In this case, however, his concern, though perhaps warranted, was not about to deter her from what she knew was the right thing to do. Nor would he ever overstep his boundaries—Alain would advise and suggest, but never demand or order. He was much more mild-mannered than Jean-Sebastian as well, though when riled he could work up an impressive head of steam, but he rarely reached the heights of emotion which her husband could, though Jean-Sebastian's anger generally burnt itself out rather quickly.

"You let me handle my husband, Alain," she replied with little concern. "He will bluster and demand that I return to where I am safe. In the end, though, he will see things my way."

"Or he will simply give in knowing he cannot win the battle," Alain laughed in response. "Very well. Your portkey will leave shortly." Alain drew her in for a brief embrace. "The best of luck to you."

"Thank you, Alain," said Apolline, and after a few more brief words, she departed to make her way toward the international portkey office.

Alain Dupuis truly was a good man and a good friend, Apolline reflected, and he had proven it beyond a doubt all those years ago, when the three of them had found themselves in a sticky emotional situation. In truth, Apolline and Alain had been on the point of dating before she had ever met Jean-Sebastian, and though she looked back on it now with the eye of experience and thought their relationship would likely never have progressed beyond that point, it had been Alain's introduction to Jean-Sebastian which had changed everything. Though Apolline was open-minded enough to believe that love at first sight was possible for the right people, she more firmly believed that true and abiding love took time and effort between the parties to develop. What she had experienced with Jean-Sebastian was an instant attraction rather than instant love. But this was as significant for a Veela as love at first sight might have been for anyone else. Though instant attraction was the norm for a man meeting a Veela—Veela _were_ very beautiful, after all—Veela rarely experienced the phenomenon for any man. And beyond that almost instantaneous attraction, Apolline and Jean-Sebastian had almost instantly made a connection of friendship, which quickly led to an esteem for each other, and ultimately to love and more than twenty years of marriage.

A lesser man would have resented Jean-Sebastian for stealing away the woman he very soon may have been dating, destroying their friendship in the process. But Alain was not that kind of man—and for that matter neither was Jean-Sebastian. Upon only a few occasions in Apolline's company, Jean-Sebastian had instantly gone to his friend and confessed his attraction, and what he suspected was her positive response. Alain had listened calmly, and then they had talked it out, with Alain becoming convinced that his friend had made a deeper attachment with her in only a few short meetings, than Alain had managed in more than a year. After a lengthy conversation, Alain had ultimately given his blessing to the relationship, telling Apolline that if she possessed any intelligence at all, she would not let go of his friend. Such was the strength of their friendship.

It had been a little awkward in the beginning, but Apolline and Jean-Sebastian had been determined to keep their growing relationship private so as to avoid rubbing it in the face of their mutual friend, while Alain had in turn been determined that if it was what she and Jean-Sebastian wanted, then his previous relationship with Apolline would not stand in their way. In the end it had all worked out, such that when Alain had fallen in love with the woman who would become his wife a year later, he had no greater encouragement than that of his two friends, who were themselves newly married. Celeste Dupuis was a lovely woman who had fit into Alain's life much as Apolline had with Jean-Sebastian, and Alain had been known in later years to comment that he was truly happy that Jean-Sebastian had shown up on the scene when he had, as a relationship with Apolline might have caused him to miss the opportunity to marry the love of his life.

Now the families were as close as could be. Alain's oldest—a son—was two years older than Fleur—their having a child first despite following Apolline and Jean-Sebastian to the altar entirely due to the difficulty Veela had in conceiving—while their second and third children were both older than Gabrielle. The youngest—a girl of twelve years—was close enough in age to Gabrielle, that she was considered to be a cherished older sister by Apolline's youngest child. In fact, Apolline and Celeste had discussed how wonderful it would be if Phillipe Dupuis would marry Fleur, thereby tightening the bonds between the two families even further. The marriage contract had put any thought of that eventuality to rest—and it had only been a passing and fond dream anyway—but Apolline thought that it likely would not have happened regardless. Phillipe appeared to be completely enthralled by his girlfriend, a childhood sweetheart, and growing up in close proximity to Fleur had led him to consider her more of a sister, than a prospective mate. As a Veela, Apolline had known that a young man like Phillipe would have taken care of and loved her daughter, always a worry for any Veela mother, considering how they were perceived in certain levels of society. Now she had Harry to fill that roll admirably, so it was a moot point.

It was a busy morning in the French Ministry, with workers and visitors alike making their way this way and that, but Apolline saw very little of it. The thoughts of her past and her association with the Minister sped past, and all too soon the direction of her musing changed to the current situation, and she was soon too immersed in those thoughts to truly pay any attention to anything to mundane as her surroundings.

When Apolline had arrived at the portkey office, she swiftly made her way to the appropriate queue and was soon conducted to the correct location with little fuss. Being the wife of a high ranking government official and personal friend to the Minister certainly had its perks, though there were actually few people attempting to travel to England, unsurprising, considering the troubles there. It was only a few moments later when she found herself standing in the British portkey reception area, where a familiar face awaited her.

"Apolline," Minister Bones greeted, stepping forward to briefly embrace her. "Welcome back to England. You have my apologies for the manner in which you were forced to leave."

"Thank you, Amelia," Apolline responded. "Jean-Sebastian does not know that I am

coming?"

"No, he has not been informed as you requested." Amelia peered at her with some concern. "I cannot imagine he'll be happy that you returned without speaking with him first."

Apolline laughed. "You're the second minister this morning to tell me that. I assure you—this is the best way to deal with this. I will present it as a fait accompli to Jean-Sebastian and he will have no choice but to accept it. I will not stay in France while my husband and eldest daughter are in danger here."

Amelia's responding smile was wry. "I can't say that I blame you, though I might question your sanity. Be that as it may, I have a portkey which will take you to the edge of Hogwarts' wards where someone will meet you. Good luck."

Taking the offered portkey from Amelia, Apolline voiced her thanks before activating it. Amelia and the Ministry disappeared in a swirl of color and after another journey of indeterminate time, Apolline found herself standing a short distance in front of the main entrance to the venerable institution. Not far from where she was standing, some else familiar to her was waiting.

Noting the look on his face, Apolline laughed. "Don't even say it, Sirius! I've already heard the lecture about how my husband will not be happy with me twice this morning—three times if you count my mother-in-law's quiet disapproval."

Grinning, Sirius bowed extravagantly and gestured toward the castle. "Far be it for me to incur your wrath, milady."

Apolline looked sidelong at him. "What's with the welcoming committee?"

"Dumbledore," Sirius replied. "The normal wards are focused on keeping out intruders, and those without an express need to enter, and to a certain degree, those who intend to do harm—if you fail any of those criteria, then the wards deny you access. But with the attacks yesterday, the Headmaster decided that was not enough, and he activated the greater defenses. Now, in addition to the standard wards, anyone coming into the castle must be escorted in by one of the professors."

"Won't that make difficult when the students arrive in the fall?"

"The Headmaster can relax them again for specific circumstances," Sirius replied. "But we would prefer not to take chances with the safety of the children."

"Understandable," Apolline replied.

Silence reigned for the next several minutes as they entered the castle through the main gates and stepped into the entrance hall. As it was nearing the middle of the day, the students attending the school were in evidence, many heading to the Great Hall for their midday repast, or scampering this way or that, relieved to be free from their morning classes. Of her daughter or her friends there was no sign—given that Jean-Sebastian had been injured in the attack, she surmised that Fleur was probably in the medical wing with her father. There was no time like the present—it would be best to brave Jean-Sebastian's displeasure immediately, so that they could move on to what was important.

"How are you doing?" Sirius spoke from her side. She turned and looked at him, and he responded with a wry grin. "We heard you had been injured in the attack on the Ambassador's Manor."

"I am well, Sirius," she responded, perhaps a trifle flippantly. She was well and if there was a slight residual pain from the injury—which the healer had assured her would be gone by the following day—she certainly would not admit that to Sirius, let alone to her husband. "It was minor and it happened when I was in my bird form, which is naturally more resilient and resistant to injury."

"Try telling that to your husband. The kids told me that he was nearly frantic with worry."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Apolline replied with a wry smile. He truly was the best of men, though he had a tendency to be pigheaded and overprotective. Still, it was wonderful to inspire the kind of love he had for her.

"Apolline," Sirius said, stopping her as they neared the hospital wing, "go easy on him. I know why you are here and I understand your reasons, but it's a guy's prerogative to protect his loved ones, you know?"

This last was spoken with a crooked smile, the likes of which may have set many hearts to fluttering. He was a devastatingly handsome man and a good and loyal friend, and had she not known him, Apolline might have thought that he was trying to put the moves on her. But Sirius, though he may be somewhat of a ladies' man, was no cad to move in on the wife of a friend.

"I have no intention of being hard on him," Apolline replied. "I understand what he wants and why. I simply do not agree."

A grin crossed Sirius's lips and he once again began to walk. "I understand the benefits of having a companion in life, but sometimes it's easier when you just have to worry about yourself."

"I don't doubt it," Apolline agreed, amused at his declaration. "But it's also a lot lonelier."

"It is at that."

When they reached the doors, Sirius bowed and motioned her forward. "Here is where I leave you, milady."

"Oh come on, Sirius," Apolline said while struggling to contain her mirth. "I'm sure it won't be _that bad_."

Sirius grinned. "I'm sure it won't. But I'm needed in the Great Hall. Much as I would likely enjoy the performance, I really should get back."

"We really do need to get you a wife, Sirius," Apolline teased. "You enjoy the foibles of married couples far too much. It would do you good to experience it for yourself."

"Ah, perhaps I should," he said knowingly. "But I might yet manage that on my own, and without any help from well-meaning but meddling friends."

With a wink, Sirius turned and strode back down toward the Great Hall, leaving a bemused Apolline behind, wondering just what he had meant by his parting words. Was Sirius actually dating someone, or was he just putting her off?

With determination, Apolline put such thoughts from her mind. Now was not the time to be thinking of such things—it was now time to brave the lion in his den.

Opening the door, Apolline stepped into the hospital wing, noting at once that the room appeared empty save for five people—Jean-Sebastian, the three children and the school matron, who was hovering over Jean-Sebastian's bed, her wand waving in complicated patterns, which appeared to be diagnostic charms. The children were standing to one side, obviously waiting for what appeared to be the matron's final examination before Jean-Sebastian was released from the wing. As expected, Jean-Sebastian watched her enter, his eyes comically wide with surprise, before an expression of pure displeasure fell over him like night falling over a darkened landscape.

"Apolline," he greeted her with very little of the warmth which he usually reserved for her. "What are you doing here?"

Deciding that it was best to ignore his pique, Apolline stepped forward and, after kissing Fleur on the forehead and saying a quick greeting to the other two children, she approached her husband and greeted him with a kiss as well, though his was on the cheek.

"It is wonderful to see you too, darling."

Jean-Sebastian's eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Apolline—" Jean-Sebastian began in a warning tone, but Apolline cut him off.

"Perhaps we should take this behind closed doors?"

Eyeing her with some annoyance, Jean-Sebastian sighed. "Will it change anything?"

"No," Apolline replied with cheerful nonchalance. "I believe we have at this very conversation before, and it did not convince me then. I'm not sure why you would think it would convince me now."

"That was before you were attacked by Voldemort himself," Jean-Sebastian pointed out.

"In my mind, it doesn't make any difference," Apolline chided with a gentleness which was akin to speaking to a child. "If I am killed by a Death Eater's killing curse, am I any less dead than if Voldemort himself cast the spell?"

"No, but you have a better chance of survival against a Death Eater." He paused and then muttered under his breath, though still loud enough for Apolline to hear, "And I doubt that they wanted to let you off so easily."

"I'm sure you're correct," she agreed easily. "But I have told you before—I will not stay in France while you and Fleur," she put and arm around Fleur and gathered her close, "face the danger of Voldemort here."

"Maman," Fleur broke into the discussion, "where _is_ Gabrielle?"

"With your grandmother. And not happy at all to be there, I assure you." Apolline directed her next comment to Jean-Sebastian. "Your mother has taken Gabrielle to the property in the Alps. Few know if its existence and its wards are strong. Alain promised me that he would ensure their safety."

Jean-Sebastian appeared like he would prefer to continue in his protestations, but the direction the conversation had taken, he likely realized that he did not truly have a leg left to stand on. As a result, he sighed and after letting out a grimace looked her in the eye and nodded.

"I don't like it, but I suppose I have no choice."

"Smooth, Ambassador," the matron said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Most men would argue and bluster and carryon for some time before realizing that they have no choice."

"I like to think that I have him well-trained," Apolline replied with a laugh, to which the matron responded in kind.

When the merriment died down, the matron turned back to Jean-Sebastian, who was scowling openly. "Oh don't be upset, Ambassador," she chided gently. "You men say much the same about women when talking amongst yourselves, do you not?"

Jean-Sebastian smirked, though there was little mirth in his manner. "A gentleman never admits to such a thing, Madam Pomfrey."

"Well said," Madam Pomfrey replied delightedly. "Now, after examining you, I can state that you are once again in the best of health. You may leave at any time."

"Excellent," Jean-Sebastian replied. "I thank you for your care and attention."

He stepped down from the bed and smiled at Apolline. "I believe Fleur said something about lunch in the Great Hall. Would you care to join us?"

"Of course, good sir," Apolline replied, and she grasped his arm as they made their way from the hospital in the company of the children, who were speaking quietly with one another behind them. It did not escape Apolline's attention that Harry walked in the middle of the two girls, and that he held a hand of each girl in one of his own. She would have to speak with Fleur—Apolline knew that some progress had been made, but it appeared like they were now open about their relationship. Hopefully Fleur was as happy with this development as she had been resigned to its necessity.

But that was an issue to be dealt with at a later date. For now, the confrontation with Jean-Sebastian had proceeded much better than Apolline had expected, though she was not foolish enough to believe that the subject was closed. Jean-Sebastian would undoubtedly have much more to say—he was just too much of a gentleman to make a scene in front of others.

* * *

For Fleur, deeply conflicted as she was by recent events, the arrival of her mother was a godsend, as she felt that she needed a mother's guidance more than ever before. The trick, of course, was to arrange to speak with her in private—at this point, and with her still rather confused state of mind, Fleur _did not_ want Harry to know of her thoughts—which was a little more difficult to arrange than she might have thought.

After her father's release from Madam Pomfrey's care, they had made their way for lunch as proposed and sat with their friends at the Gryffindor table. What Fleur could not have predicted was the almost celebrity status her parents immediately enjoyed. Not only had her father been present for the entirety of the attack on the Ministry, but he had also been injured during a courageous last stand in the Minister's office, defending a woman to whom he had, in actuality, no true allegiance. He told his story to the riveted attentions of anyone who could cram in close enough to hear, and was able to provide intelligence as to the state of Minister's health, which was particularly of interest to Susan Bones, who had worried for her aunt's safety.

As for her mother, well Apolline had been targeted by the Dark Lord himself, and had lived to tell the tale, though she had been quick to point out the fact that she had merely fled the scene in as expeditious a manner as possible. That did nothing to quell the interest and, in a few cases, outright awe at having escaped intact. But though her mother did not explicitly state it, Fleur caught on to the fact that she had changed into her second shape in order to evade her would-be captors by the way she described the encounter and, perhaps more importantly, what she left out. Veela were generally sensitive about their bird form, and could not be induced to discuss it openly unless absolutely necessary.

Of course, there was also Apolline's Veela allure and beautiful looks to consider, and though the allure was kept under firm control, the looks were not controllable. The effect her mother had on the hall was even worse than that which Fleur engendered as, for all that Fleur knew that her own features could be devastating, she had also been among the Hogwarts student body for the last eight months and the boys attending the school had to a certain extent become used to her presence. It also did not hurt that she was very publicly attached to Harry, which had ameliorated some of the blatant discrimination she had received while at Beauxbatons. Apolline, however, was a mature Veela in the prime of her beauty and sexuality, whereas Fleur was only just moving from a girl to a woman, which made Apolline even more overwhelming to the adolescent boys of the school. Apolline took no overt notice, however, contenting herself with speaking quietly to her husband and those of Harry's close friends who were close by, and ignoring the dreamy and slightly befuddled looks of most of the other boys in the hall.

Thus, with all that went on at lunch, there was simply no opportunity to have a private discussion between them. And then after lunch, her parents found it necessary to retire to the small suite of rooms which the Headmaster had provided for their use, for a discussion in a slightly more intimate setting.

As she waited for them to appear, Fleur became more than a little agitated—she had a free period right after lunch, but was scheduled to go into Charms for the final period of the day. Knowing that she was far too consumed with thoughts of Harry and his relationship with Hermione and that it would affect her in class, Fleur had almost determined to skip Charms in order to be able to speak with her mother.

At length, however, the door to the room in which her parents had been ensconced for the better part of the previous hour opened, and they stepped out. Apolline sported an almost smug expression as she gazed at her husband, while Jean-Sebastian wore one that could only be termed as resigned.

Leaping to her feet, Fleur almost instantly blurted, "Mother, may I speak with you?" She immediately colored, but her mother appeared to take no notice of Fleur's behavior.

"Of course, my dear."

Meanwhile, Fleur's father was watching her, no doubt guessing what she wished to discuss with her mother. He did not say anything on the matter, however, choosing instead to leave them to speak alone.

He kissed both on the cheek, telling them, "I believe I would like to have a word with Dumbledore before tonight." He turned to Apolline. "You likely haven't heard—Remus has returned."

Greeting that news with a sharp look of worry, Apolline asked, "And do we know what he has discovered?"

"Unfortunately not," Jean-Sebastian replied with a grimace. "But according to Dumbledore, the news is not good."

Apolline searched his face for a moment before she sighed. "Harry will need us, then."

No one replied to her words, but for an instant Fleur felt ashamed of her thoughts. Here she was worrying about relationships, where for Harry the information to be divulged tonight was literally a matter of life and death.

Jean-Sebastian took his leave soon after, and Fleur was left with her mother, though now she wondered if she should leave this matter alone until the rest of their issues had been dealt with. So caught up in her thoughts was she that she had not even noticed the passage of time until her mother, clearly amused over her distraction, cleared her throat.

"Did you intend for me to guess what you wanted to talk about?" her mother's wry voice interrupted her thoughts. "Or did you simply wish for me to watch you while worry over your problem in silence?"

Coloring, Fleur attempted to treat the matter as though it was of no consequence, though her insides were still churning over her continued uncertainty. "Maybe I was a little too hasty, Maman. It is nothing."

"Fleur, it is not 'nothing,'" Apolline responded with a frown. "Something is obviously bothering you. If I can help you, I will."

The compassion and love in her mother's voice ended up being Fleur's undoing. Stifling a sob which made it past her clenched lips, Fleur allowed her head to be drawn to her mother's breast, where Apolline put her arms around her and comforted her, much as she had when Fleur was a little girl. This, of course, broke down the final barriers on Fleur's emotions, and she began to weep on her mother's shoulder. The emotional outburst was amazingly cathartic, as she had not even been aware herself of the pent up emotion she had suppressed, and all in the space of only two days! By the time she had quieted and was ready to speak on the matter further, she felt the release of emotion had imparted the strength to actually do so.

"Thank you, Maman," she said quietly, drawing away and using the sleeve of her robe to wipe away the residual tears on her cheeks. "I do not know what came over me."

Apolline fixed an appraising look on her as though Fleur was an oddity to be studied, before she responded. "Whatever it is, it appears to be serious, Fleur. Come. Tell me what has upset you so."

Hesitantly, but gaining the will to comply, Fleur began to speak, relating the events of the past two days and the suspicion she had begun to entertain of Harry's feelings for Hermione and his contrasting feelings for her. She left nothing out—Hermione's abduction and rescue, Harry's single-minded will to rescue her, their interactions since, Fleur's growing doubts—all she lay bare before Apolline, hoping her mother could help her sort through the mess of her emotions. For her part, Apolline listened carefully to what she said only speaking up to ask questions or clarify Fleur's narration.

When she had completed her narration, Apolline watched her appraisingly for several moments before replying. "Fleur, do you remember our conversation last summer, when we spoke of Harry's relationship with Hermione?"

Fleur hung her head and replied in a quiet voice, "Yes, Maman. I should have listened to you."

"Perhaps," her mother said with a laugh. "But I do not believe that the matter is as difficult as you seem to think. The most difficult part of childrearing is to raise your children in a loving but firm manner, but also to know when to let go when they become old enough to make their own choices. You are a fine and talented young woman, but as any other young person you suffer from the lack of experience. I do not think it is a surprise to you to understand that the reason why I was against this was because I was afraid you would be hurt."

Apolline paused for a moment, looking at Fleur with a focused stare. "However, I can honestly tell you that I'm not worried about you being hurt any longer."

Nonplused, Fleur returned her mother's gaze with no little astonishment. "Wh… What do you mean?" she finally stammered.

"Fleur, can you not sense his feelings for you?" Apolline queried.

"Of course I can," Fleur replied, a hint of indignation entering her voice. "What I can't tell is where I stand in comparison with Hermione."

"That's your mistake, Fleur," said Apolline in a quiet voice. "Harry's love for you is different from his love for Hermione. But that does not mean that he loves you any less.

Fleur frowned. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Listen to me carefully, Fleur, and I will explain," said Apolline, while gathering Fleur's hands between her own. "I have admittedly not met Harry for several months before this afternoon, but I can tell you that boy loves you fiercely—that I do not doubt. But you must never think that Harry's feelings for you and Hermione will be in every way equal. You are different people, each with your own strengths and weaknesses, and it is simply not possible for Harry to feel exactly the same way about you both. You must also remember that this arrangement you have set up means that you will not always be the most important woman in his life. There will be times when events are such that his focus will be on Hermione. At other times he will concentrate on you. _That_ is what you will both need to accept if you are both to create successful relationships with him.

"When Hermione was abducted and injured, he acted in a fashion which showed his love for her. I am certain that had it been you in that situation, he would have reacted in exactly the same manner."

For Fleur her mother's words had almost acted like a sudden light shining into the darkest night. She had never considered it in that manner, perhaps because she was too close to the situation. Or perhaps it was because she had immediately been assaulted by the insidious onslaught of fear, which had left her incapable of rationally working it out on her own.

Whatever the reason, her mother's rational explanation gave her hope—hope that whatever may come between them, she would always share a portion of Harry's heart; a portion which was hers alone. That Hermione would also have _her own_ measure of Harry's regard was not a bothersome thought now, though some niggling doubt as to whether he truly loved her remained. For that, however, she knew she would have to speak with Harry and acquaint him with her concerns. With respect to Hermione, however, she was Fleur's dearest friend and they could surely manage to get along with a man who had the capacity of loving them both in immeasurable amounts.

And all of this, her mother accomplished with only a few words. It was a trifle embarrassing, if Fleur was to be honest with herself.

"I think I need to speak with Harry," Fleur finally said, a little chagrinned at the fact that the obvious had eluded her.

"I believe that might be for the best," her mother replied with fond amusement. "And I think you might have figured this out for yourself, had you been able to step away from the problem and consider it without emotion getting in the way."

"You are likely right," was Fleur's rueful reply.

"The heart can be a very difficult organ," Apolline said, in a pompous tone, no doubt intended to be sage, though her eyes twinkled with mirth. "Even for Veela. We cannot always figure it out ourselves without another perspective."

"Thank you, Maman!" Fleur exclaimed, flinging her arms around her mother's shoulders.

"You are very welcome, my darling daughter. I believe everything has and will work out for the best. You just need to have some faith in your betrothed. Speak with him at your first opportunity."

"I will."

The two women moved onto other topics and their conversation lasted well into the late afternoon. Fleur never did make it to her Charms class.

* * *

Harry looked at Fleur with a curious eye, wondering what she wished to speak with him concerning. It was nearing the time when they were to meet in the Headmaster's office to hear Remus's information about horcruxes and Harry found himself anxious to hear what the man had to say. To be truthful, Harry was not expecting good news—Remus's countenance when they had met the previous day had not suggested that his information was good. Harry was trying to keep a positive mindset, but it was difficult, considering the subject matter.

Turning his attention back to Fleur, Harry wondered at her reticence—he had never known her to be so, not even when they were first introduced. But her behavior in the past few days had been different. She had been withdrawn, sometimes appeared to be almost distressed, and at others, even a little wistful. He would never call Fleur _bubbly_, but she had always been a happy, vibrant sort of person. So when she had requested to speak with him privately, he had hoped that she would share with him what was bothering her. But the waiting was a little irksome, if Harry were to be honest, due to his impatience to hear what Remus had to impart

"Harry," Fleur began with a hesitance which was so unlike his betrothed, "I wanted to speak with you about something. I wanted… I wanted to know what you think."

"Is this about whatever has been bothering you the last few days?"

Fleur colored and turned her head away slightly. "I should have realized that you would notice."

"It was a little hard to miss," Harry replied to her gently. "What's bothering you?"

She was quiet for several moments, apparently struggling for words. Then, after a moment of two, when it was clear she was struggling with her emotions, she blurted out, "You _do_ know me well, don't you?"

"I would think so," Harry replied, incredulous at the implication that she though he did no know her, even after the events of the past year.

At that, it appeared as though a dam had burst and the words flowed out in a torrent. Harry listened as she explained what had been bothering her—how she had watched him go haring off to rescue Hermione, wondering if he would do the same for her; how he had paid attention to Hermione, wondering at the exact state of his feelings for her; and perhaps worst of all, how he had loved Hermione, suspecting that he had already confessed his love for her, while wondering if she would always be second best in his heart.

Within the confines of his own mind, Harry cursed himself for a fool. He had known for some time now how he felt about both girls—from the epiphany the night of their sojourn to the Ministry, and even further back than that, had he been at all intelligent enough to recognize his own feelings. But had he told her? No he had not. He thought that he had showed it adequately enough in the attentions he paid to both girls, but Fleur, who did not have the history with him that he shared with Hermione, and seeing the care and attention hr gave to his oldest friend, could not be certain, regardless of her Veela senses. It was hardly a surprise that she was uncertain.

All of this he could have prevented with a few short, yet honest, words. Well, that and a little more attention to her in addition to Hermione. For the first time Harry understood what it would mean to love two girls. It would take his constant diligence to ensure that they were both afforded his attention, and that they both felt valued and loved at all times. It suddenly seemed like a more daunting task than he had ever before anticipated.

But do it he would—there was no turning back.

He faced his beautiful betrothed and did the first thing which came to his mind; he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, pouring everything he felt for her into that kiss. At first Fleur stiffened, no doubt surprised by his impulsive action, but it was not long before she began to respond with a passion equal to his own. She molded into his arms and pressed herself to him like she belonged there—which she did, he did not doubt—and for one brief moment, Harry almost thought they were one being, so close were they to one another.

Harry broke it off when the passion became too intense, not wishing to push it beyond what they were both ready to share, but rather than completely pull away from her, he eased away, continuing to shower her face with nips and kisses, making his way from the line of her jaw, over the beautiful contours of her face, her eyelids, and down the other side of her neck. Fleur sighed with the pleasure of his attentions and Harry, perhaps a trifle smugly, reveled in his ability to reduce _two_ beautiful girls to puddles of desire.

Finally, Harry ceased his attentions and leaned his forehead into hers. "In case it's not obvious," he said in a raspy voice filled with emotion, "I love you very much."

Tears escaping from her beautiful eyes, Fleur smiled and returned in a tremulous voice, "And I love you."

"I also need to tell you that I'm a git who doesn't have the sense of a flobberworm."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak that way about the man I love," Fleur said with an impish smile.

"Only when he deserves it," Harry replied seriously. "I've known my feelings for you for some time. I was just so caught up in everything that has been happening that I neglected to tell you. I am sorry, Fleur."

"It's completely understandable, Harry. You have had a lot on your mind."

"A lot on my mind or not," Harry said in a very firm tone of voice, "I cannot forget about the important things in my life. You are far more important than anything else, Fleur. I can't allow myself to forget that."

"And I should have trusted my senses. They told me that you loved me. I also should not have made it into a competition between Hermione and me."

"I would never have you competing with each other, Fleur. I love you both, though in different ways. You and I have come together in a much more unconventional way than Hermione and I, but I don't love you any less than I love Hermione."

"Maman told me the same thing."

"Your mother is a wise woman, Fleur." Harry then paused for a moment, considering Fleur's feelings and his feelings for both girls. It was perhaps a good thing this had come out now, as it would prevent problems later. (Or so he hoped!) But there was something here that he was certain she had not considered, and Harry felt that it was important she understand.

"Fleur, you do understand that our relationship will never be the same as the one I share with Hermione, right?"

Fleur tilted her head to one side. "I do know that, but I expect that you mean something different from just having different feelings?"

"Yes." Standing, Harry paced the room a little, working off some nervous energy while he considered exactly how to say what he wanted her to understand.

When he had settled it in his own mind, he turned and faced her. She was silent, watching him with a curious eye, but all traces of her previous insecurity were now gone, replaced with a level of contentment he did not think he had ever seen in her. Perhaps she had not considered the state of their relationship consciously before, but this had obviously been bothering her on some level for quite some time now. He would have considered himself an imbecile all over again, but he realized that never having truly known her previously, he could not have been expected to understand her on an intimate level and to notice the signs of her previous discontent, if it could even have been termed as such.

"Fleur, I _wouldn't want_ our relationship to progress they way my relationship with Hermione has."

Almost wincing at the way the blurted statement had issued from his lips, Harry looked at Fleur, half afraid of what her reaction would be. To her credit, although she certainly did not understand him, she did not make any assumptions. She merely waited for him to continue.

"I'm sorry for how that must have sounded, but it's true. Think about it—Hermione and I have been through some pretty hair-raising events since I've known her. There was the troll and the stone in first year; then the basilisk and everything that went on there in second year; Sirius, the Dementors, and everything that happened with Moony, including time-turning at the end of the year in third; the tournament and everything there last year, though Hermione was never truly in danger; and then this thing with Malfoy this year. Our relationship has been forged in the fire of some pretty incredible events. Would you want to be in all those dangerous situations in order for our relationship to become like the one I have with Hermione's?"

Fleur's eyes lit up at his explanation and she gazed at him, a new light of understanding inherent in her face.

"Then consider our relationship. Our first meeting was not good, and the way we got together is not exactly normal, but since then we've been allowed to get to know one another in a more normal way. It's been great," he admitted shyly. "It's been like we were just young sweethearts getting to know one another better, leaning about each other and learning how to love each other. It's been almost like a normal teenage romance and as you know, I've not had a lot of normality in my life.

"Hermione is my compass and my will to fight. You are my reason to fight and my link back to normalcy. You both have different roles in my life, but that doesn't mean that either of you is less important than the other."

Once again overcome with emotion, Fleur directed a tremulous smile at him. "I don't think I ever considered it that way, Harry. Thank you for explaining it to me. I should never have doubted you."

"No you shouldn't," another voice spoke up from the door.

Hermione stood there looking at them both with a bit of an emotional smile. "I'm sorry… I came to get you—everyone is ready in Dumbledore's office. I couldn't help but overhear."

She came toward them with a hesitant, but determined stride. She brushed Harry's cheek with a kiss, before she turned to embrace Fleur, one which was returned fiercely by the French blond.

"I would never allow you to be something less than me, Fleur," Hermione said with conviction. "I'd break it off with Harry before I'd allow that to happen to you."

"Neither of you will ever be second best," Harry replied. "I love you both, and I can't imagine not loving either one of you."

"Just remember that, buster," Hermione said with a grin and a poke in his side. "We'll hold you to that."

"I'm counting on it," Harry replied.

Grasping both girls' hands, Harry bestowed a kiss on the back of each before he pulled them both from the room.

"Come on. Remus has found something and we need to find out what it is."

* * *

In Dumbledore's office, Remus sat on a chair desperately attempting to control his nervous fidgeting. He was not looking forward to the coming conversation and the hope that he would essentially be destroying. Harry appeared so happy—even happier than he had been when Remus had last seen him. Unless Remus missed his guess, he had not only become immeasurably closer to Fleur in the intervening months, but he had also drawn closer to Hermione, a development which Remus could only applaud. He had thought back in Harry's third year that the girl was a perfect match for him.

But now, the war and the doom Voldemort's actions had wrought must be brought back to the forefront. The dissemination would not be pleasant, not when it brought with it an even more insidious evil than they had originally thought. How would he be able to look his best friend's son in the eye and tell him what he knew?

To his side, Tonks appeared to be as ill at ease as Remus was himself. She, alone of those in the office—which also included Dumbledore, Sirius, and the Delacours—knew what Remus knew about horcruxes. She appeared to feel the burden as much as he felt it himself.

Still, they must make the rest of them aware of what they now knew. If Voldemort ever discovered the true nature of Horcruxes, he would become all that much more dangerous and difficult to stop. If he had known what he was doing all those years ago, Remus wondered if he might already be well on his way to taking over the magical world; or at least burrowed deeper into the world without anyone being any wiser to what he was up to, and therefore immeasurably more dangerous. It was not a comforting thought.

They had been waiting for a few moments—longer than he had expected, seeing that Hermione had left more than ten minutes before to fetch Harry and Fleur—when the door to the office opened and in walked the three teens. Remus studied Harry as he approached and sat down with a greeting to the entire room. His original impression from the previous day was confirmed easily to Remus's mind, making this discussion all that much more difficult. Even so, Harry carried himself with a confidence Remus could not remember witnessing, not to mention an air of authority, and a determination to do what needed to be done. He would undoubtedly need both in the coming months.

As the door closed behind the teens and they took their seats, Dumbledore took his wand up from his desk and cast a series of privacy charms and wards, ensuring the conversation stayed within the confines of the room. He even attended to the portraits, obscuring them and placing a sound barrier on them so that they would not be able to hear the conversation. That completed, he turned to the company and greeted them.

"Thank you all for joining us here. Remus and Miss Tonks have returned from Egypt with some information. Indeed, they appear to have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams."

"Succeeded in finding out more information," Remus spoke up. "We did find out a lot about horcruxes, but the information is secret, as is the method in which we managed to find it. Before we can continue, we need to guide you all through a series of oaths to protect this information. Without this, we can tell you nothing."

"Then we had best get to it," Jean-Sebastian spoke up.

Drawing upon the methods and the information the society had passed on to him, Remus led the entire group through the oaths, which included—among other things—promises not to relay the information they were about to hear to anyone who did not already know unless they also swore the oaths, not to use the information for their own gain or to benefit others, and not to attempt to actually invoke the magic themselves.

When that was done, Remus collected his thoughts for a moment before he launched into the explanation.

"As you have already heard, we have discovered a source of information on horcruxes. Unfortunately, the information we have here in Britain, if any such truly exists any more, is faulty and incomplete. Horcruxes are much fouler devices than we had ever thought." Remus paused for a moment, before shaking his head. "In fact, it's probably more correct to say that it's _fortunate_ that the information which exists her is not more complete, as Voldemort would be much more dangerous if he knew the truth. For that we can only be grateful."

Remus turned and faced Harry, and with some trembling of emotion said, "I'm sorry, Harry. Though I can now tell you exactly what horcruxes are, where they came from, and even in a general sense how they are created, one thing came up over and over again in the scrolls. There is no known way to remove a soul piece from a horcrux once it has been created. Given everything known about horcruxes, about magical theory, and about the very nature of the soul, removing a horcrux is simply impossible!"

* * *

**A/N:**

1. My thanks to everyone who has commented, read, followed, favorited, or just given this story a chance. Now, 56 chapters in (with 64 written), with over 2 million hits and 3700 reviews, it has been more popular than I had ever imagined, and I'm really beginning to feel the weight of expectations. In short, I want to make the ending as good as it can possibly be, and leave it behind as a worthy addition to this wonderful world of apocryphal writings. Thanks to you all for the encouragement. I hope I don't disappoint!

2. As a first order of business, the next chapter, as you would no doubt know even if I hadn't been teasing you for the past several chapters, contains part one of the big reveal about horcruxes. The second big reveal—and probably the largest single plot twist in the story—will follow about five chapters later. In the interest of keeping you all from cussing me out while waiting two weeks, I will post the next chapter next Sunday. Stay tuned!

3. Apolline is back! Whether you agree with her reasons or not, I think most would understand her desire to be with her husband, regardless of the danger. It's very much in the character I've tried to build for her.

4. And Fleur's angst is over. You may recall, but I mentioned some time ago that there is a basic difference in Harry's relationship with Hermione, as opposed to his relationship with Fleur, and it's the difference in how they have been brought together—Fleur through the contract, but also through their mutual desire to learn of one another and become closer with one another, and Hermione through all the crazy adventures they've had together. Personally, I think that once the danger is gone and they settle down into normal lives, Harry's relationship with Hermione will alter somewhat due to the fact that they're not always in danger any more! It's beyond the scope of this story to cover that change in any great detail, but I will likely allude to it in the epilogue. In any case, I think it's clear that Hermione and Fleur are not and will never be equal, but that Harry can love them in different ways, and they can both be happy with him as a result. But it never could be about them being completely equal in his affections. That's simply not possible.


	57. Chapter 56 – Of Horcruxes

**Previously: **Alaric Morgan is murdered in the Ministry, and the DMLE investigates. Apolline returns to France, and though Jean-Sebastian is initially angry, he is forced to accept it. Fleur speaks with her mother about the situation with Harry and Hermione, and Apolline encourages her to speak with Harry. Fleur does, and Harry tells her that he loves her and that he does not love one of them more than the other. They go into the horcrux discussion with Remus, who begins by saying that there is no known way to remove a horcrux.

* * *

**Chapter 56 – Of Horcruxes**

As Remus's declaration rang throughout the Headmaster's office, the group within watched him in silence, their attention riveted upon the werewolf. It was not so much the information he had brought back with him which struck Harry at that moment; it was the determined manner in which he informed them of the reality of the situation, and the way it left no room for argument which shocked everyone present for the explanation. They had all known this was a possibility—how could they not? But to have it so starkly put before them was anything but pleasant, for everyone in the office loved the young man in their own way, and none of them wanted him to deal with this on top of everything else which had occurred over the course of his short and tragic life.

Fleur knew that though Harry had suspected he might have to die to defeat Voldemort—especially since being told about his horcrux problem—learning that it was fact rather than speculation was undoubtedly a shock; it was one thing to suspect something, and quite another to know it without any doubt. Of course, Remus could still be wrong. They would have to wait to see what further information and proof he was to impart before making a final judgment on the matter. Regardless, Harry would not face it alone—of that Fleur was determined.

"Ladies," Remus continued after allowing his words to sink in, "if you will move away from Harry, I would like to test our theory." He smiled apologetically at the young man. "Until now we have nothing more than a suspicion which appears to match a set of circumstances. One of the things we found is a spell which will determine once and for all if a Horcrux resides in you. If I may?"

Though nervous, Harry gamely looked at the elder man with a level of gravity which should not be allowed in a boy of merely fifteen. "Please," he replied, his voice strong and steady.

Chancing a quick glance at Hermione, Fleur could see that the other girl was just as reluctant as she to move away from Harry even for a moment. Yet she knew that they could not demure—to deny the proof that Remus could now show would do no one any good at this stage of the game. With great reluctance, she shifted her position so that she was not touching Harry, but was close enough to readily comfort him if need be. She could not help but see the symbolism of Harry facing the final proof of the theory of the horcrux alone, though she and Hermione would certainly not allow him to face the consequences by himself.

Smiling faintly as though understanding her thoughts, Remus drew his wand, and after taking a deep breath, he began waiving his wand in a complicated fashion, before he punctuated it with a loudly spoken, "_Extrarius Anima Manufesto!_"

The spell impacted Harry, causing him to glow white for a brief yet endless moment, and Fleur could not help but wish with all of her heart that it would end there, releasing Harry from this burden. But then slowly the color began to change, a streak of indeterminate color, starting from the top of his head down to his toes. Gaining momentum, the cloud of white light eddied and shifted, the light changing and undulating, like smoke billowing from a burning house, obscuring the light of a clear sky with its dark and sooty filth. A hint of a deep crimson began to overtake the whiteness, and within moments the white aura had fled, leaving nothing but the blood red glow emanating from the person of her beloved. The light remained for several moments before it faded away, leaving no sign behind that anything was amiss.

Remus sighed and turned to Dumbledore. "Sir, if I may?"

At Dumbledore's nod, Remus repeated the spell while pointing his wand at the Headmaster. But when the spell impacted the ancient man, a white radiance burst forth as it had with Harry, and rather than what had happened with Harry, the light remained pure and clear, and it simply faded away once the spell had run its course.

The implications were obvious, given the reaction of the spell to both Harry and the Headmaster, and knowing what it meant Fleur leaned back into Harry, accepting his hand in hers, while attempting to impart what comfort she could.

After a moment's silence—Fleur suspected that this was as hard for Remus as it was for anyone else—he continued his explanation. "That spell, roughly translated, means 'reveal foreign soul.' It was designed to distinguish between a person's own soul, and the presence of a piece of someone else's soul." Remus took a deep breath and looked Harry in the eye. "It also confirms what we've suspected, Harry. You have a portion of Voldemort's soul residing in your body."

Harry gave a jerky nod in response and Fleur could see the rigidness of his posture and the clench of his hand in hers, which indicated the tight control he was exerting over his emotions. On his left side, Hermione was holding on to his other hand, and for a brief moment Fleur's eyes met Hermione's and she recognized the telltale signs of Hermione Granger deciding that she was not going to stand for something, from the chewing of her bottom lip to the way in which her expression and posture screamed defiance. A fierce determination passed between them, the meaning of which could not have been clearer had they shouted it out loud for all the room to hear. They would find a way out of this for Harry. They would not fail him.

* * *

On some level, Harry knew that what Remus was saying should be completely devastating, just like on some level he knew that he was clutching both girls' hands almost painfully. But he held his emotions in an almost iron grip, feeling like a visitor in his own body; if he did not, he knew he would break down and that would do no one—least of all himself—any good.

The girls on either side of him—and everyone else in the room as well—directed apprehensive looks at him, but Harry forced himself to continue to listen to Remus's explanation. Perhaps through listening, understanding would come, and the puzzle would be solved. He did not, in truth, think it would be so easy, but at the moment it was all he had.

"I think first we should explain where we found our information," Remus was saying. "After we've explained that, we can move to the horcrux itself."

With that, Remus launched into an explanation of their journeys through Egypt, how that had searched without finding anything until they came to the notice of the society. He then explained what the society stood for, their goals and actions, and how they preserved ancient knowledge—whether good or evil—so that records may be kept and, in the case of destructive magics, countered by those with the will to do so.

It was rather fortunate, Harry thought, that they had managed to find this group. Otherwise, no information at all may have ever been found, and the mystery of Voldemort's return might have been lost forever. If Remus's ominous declaration of how truly bad Horcruxes were was accurate, they might have lost the battle before it had even been fought.

Once Remus had concluded his explanation of the magical remnants of the Great Library and answered a few questions—mostly from Dumbledore, whose delight in knowledge Harry knew to be on the same level as Hermione's, though subdued due to the situation—he fell silent once again before turning back to the true subject: horcruxes.

"To understand the history of the horcrux, one must go deep into the history of Ancient Egypt," Remus began. "The ancient magicals were interested in all things to do with the human experience—birth, life, death: all of these things fascinated them and drew them into study and experimentation." Remus smiled faintly. "Of all magical people, the ancient Egyptians were the most curious and studious. Or at least those of Egyptian descent claim it to be so. The theory that all people possess souls is almost as old as the human race is itself, and the concept tied in rather nicely with those things which primarily interested the ancient Egyptians.

"Soul magic was rife at the time and, among other things, the Egyptians learned not only how to tie the soul to the earth via the Horcrux, but also many other things, both beneficial and otherwise."

Remus paused in his recitation and smiled. "Of course, most soul magic is not truly useful, as the Headmaster had previously explained, but there are some uses which go beyond mere dark magic and are amongst the foulest abominations known to man. For example, there is a ritual—long lost to the world at large, thankfully—which allows one to gain control over another's very soul, in a manner far more profound than even the most powerful Imperius curse. It allows the person who holds the other in thrall to not only control the unfortunate caught in their grasp, but also to snuff out the other person's very soul with a clenching of their fist. And this is not the only—or indeed the worst—soul magic of which the society has record."

There were looks of distaste around the room at this thought, and Harry was struck by the fact that there were undoubtedly many things in this library which Voldemort would delight in should he ever find them. No doubt, it would make his rule all that much darker and the times more evil should he ever discover it.

"The origin of the horcrux spell is in fact lost to the mists of time. There is no record of who created it, and it also does not speak of what that person or persons intended when it was created, though their intentions seem to be obvious, given what the horcrux was designed to do. It is possible, however, that they stumbled on it when seeking for something else entirely. Either way, that knowledge is lost forever."

"My information suggested that Herpo the Foul, an evil and powerful Greek wizard discovered it some centuries before Christ," said Dumbledore.

"But you sent Remus and Tonks to Egypt," Harry protested, feeling the need to exert himself in some manner.

Dumbledore smiled at him. "Herpo was well-known for his travels. He was born and lived in Sparta until, as a young man, he was driven from the city when certain of his proclivities were discovered. He wandered for many years throughout Greece, around the Mediterranean, until he arrived in Lower Egypt, where he lived until the end of his life." Dumbledore turned his attention back to Remus. "According to my information, he was the first one who was known to actually create a horcrux, though I was never completely certain as the history I managed to find made no mention of his ever returning to life. He was also known to be very distasteful in some of his habits, so it is possible that he created one, but had no followers to help him return to life after his death."

"Herpo was mentioned in the histories," Remus confirmed, "but he was not the one who discovered how to create a horcrux. The horcrux is actually a much older spell, dating back many centuries, perhaps even millennia. When Herpo arrived in Egypt, he managed to discover some record concerning horcruxes as he was naturally drawn to such things. He may have _thought_ he had successfully created a horcrux, but it is likely that he did not, for reasons which I will explain as we go along. What is known is that the society—which did not truly even exist as a formal body in those days—discovered what he had done and punished him for it. The battle was hard and it cost the society dearly—Herpo was a powerful and devious wizard, ruthless and cruel—but eventually he was defeated and was put to death.

"As for the true origin of horcruxes, it is not known exactly who invented them, or when they did so. All that it known is that a way to extend life was being sought. Some of the records we went through speculated that it was created in order to protect the life of a Pharaoh who was under the threat of assassination. As you will see, they succeeded, after a fashion, but not in the manner that they had desired, if the story is at all true."

Sitting back in his, Remus raked his fingers through his hair and tilted his head back in contemplation. "The more pertinent part of history to our purposes is around the time of the ending of the seventeenth dynasty and the beginning of the eighteenth dynasty of the Ancient Egyptian Pharaohs.

"By the fifteenth century Northern Egypt was dominated by the Hyksos dynasty, and they held sway over all of Egypt, with the rulers of Upper Egypt, based at Thebes, paying tribute to them in the manner of a subject kingdom. There are many theories as to the origins of the Hyksos, including where they came from or how they managed to seize power, but that is not truly pertinent to our subject. The term which has been passed down through history to describe them, 'Hyksos,' was what the Egyptians called them, and it means 'foreign rulers.' They were naturally considered to be usurpers.

"The second to last ruler of the seventeenth dynasty was named Seqenenre Tao. Now Seqenenre Tao only ruled for four years, but by the time he came to the throne, he was already well into his forties, and had fathered several children, some of whom had already grown to adulthood themselves. It was Seqenenre Tao who laid the foundation for Egypt's liberation from the Hyksos, though he himself died in battle.

"His eldest son, Kamose, continued the fight after his father's death, and in the histories of the Muggle world, it is also thought that he died himself against the Hyksos. They are possibly correct, though the true circumstances of Kamose's death are not known, as it was never proven exactly how he died. For our purposes, the most important figure of this time is another son of Seqenenre Tao, who ruled after his brother Kamose died. His name was Nebpehtire Ahmose I, or more commonly just referred to as Ahmose I.

"Now, Ahmose was an oddity. He, along with only one of his sisters, was a magical—then, as now, if one child born to Muggle parents is magical, then generally they all are. However, all his other brothers and sisters were Muggles, making him and his one sister the only magicals in the family."

That caught Harry's attention. "But my mother was magical while my Aunt Petunia isn't."

"They are the exception rather than the rule, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "Remus is correct—in the vast majority of Muggleborn cases, all the children in the family will be magical with very few exceptions. And I daresay that it is even odder that two out of several children would be magical. Usually if there is a mix, there might be one child among several which is _not_ magical, rather than the reverse."

Idly, Harry wondered if his aunt had ever known this. It might account in some way for her resentment toward his mother, and even toward Harry himself. But then again, Aunt Petunia had never shown any indication that she had known anything but the basics about the magical world, and she had made it very clear that she did not care to know. Had that antipathy been in part driven because she had been denied something she felt was her right, or had she just hated the magical world on principle? Harry could not be certain, but as it was an extraneous thought, he pushed it away to focus on the narrative.

"Ahmose was very inquisitive," Remus continued, "and extremely ambitious. It is said that he greatly resented that his brother was to be the next Pharaoh due to nothing more than the accident of birth. It was never proven, but at the time, some of those close to the throne suspected that Ahmose had arranged for his brother's death. As Kamose died in the middle of a battle, it is unknown exactly how he accomplished this feat, but it is possible that he hired someone to kill his brother when engaged with the Hyksos, thereby enabling him to blame it on the heat of battle. It's also possible that his brother just died in battle as is thought by the Muggles, without any intervention at all. It is simply not known at this time and regardless, after his brother died, Ahmose assumed the throne and under his guidance, the Hyksos were quickly defeated and driven from the Lower Nile. This ushered in an era of peace and prosperity for the kingdom of Ancient Egypt.

"Unfortunately, though the kingdom was prosperous, at its heart, it was quickly rotting away."

Remus quickly glanced about the room. "Now, to understand any more of the history of Ahmose, we need to focus on the horcrux itself. Ahmose, though important in illustrating just exactly how a horcrux may be used, is incidental to the problem at hand."

Silence descended on the room as, for the next few moments, Remus appeared to struggle with exactly how to relate his information. Finally, he sighed and looked Harry in the eye.

"Harry, I'm not certain exactly how to say this and make it any easier to hear—"

"Then just say it, Moony," Harry prompted.

Fixing him with a searching look, Remus nodded slightly before he continued. "The horcrux is one of the most evil forms of magic in existence and far more disgusting than we have even suspected, despite what the Headmaster has already told us. Casting the horcrux ritual is, as Professor Dumbledore indicated, the act of removing a small portion of one's essence—commonly referred to as their soul—and placing it into another in order to tie the caster to the world so that their soul cannot pass on into the afterlife should they die. A person who possesses a horcrux can still die, but their soul will remain anchored to the world until the horcrux itself is no longer of this world.

"Now, when I say that a portion of the soul is place into _another_, I do mean _someone_, rather than _something_." Remus's words were punctuated by his verbal emphasis on the words. "A horcrux _cannot_ be made from an inanimate object. A horcrux _must_ be a living being, and must be one who has magic of their own."

Of them all, it was Dumbledore who started and stared at Remus with disbelief. For perhaps the first time in Harry's remembrance, the Headmaster appeared incredulous at what he was hearing, and not possessing all the facts concerning the subject they were discussing. It was a curious thing to witness, to more than just Harry, he suspected.

"But that cannot be!" he exclaimed. "Harry destroyed a horcrux in his second year."

"Your information was incorrect, Headmaster," Remus stated quietly. "Over the centuries, the society's agents have systematically removed every reference to horcruxes they could find, and through this experience, they know that there are some records which claim to be able to create a horcrux from an inanimate object, even records which were created after the truth was discovered. Those records are false.

"It _is_ known that when the ritual was first devised and attempted, the ritual creator thought he had a working horcrux, but he could not be returned to life after he died. It was then that those who had the will to do so turned their thought toward the idea of a living host. After some experimentation and minor tweaking of the ritual, they were able to make it work with a living host."

Dumbledore peered at Remus in disbelief before he turned and opened a drawer in his desk. The object he pulled out was one which was very familiar to Harry. It was an old, leather diary with a hole punched through its center, the pages blackened and burned about the edges. It was the diary which had taken control of Ginny Weasley in her first year, possessing her and forcing her to unleash the basilisk on the school. Until now they had all thought it to be a horcrux.

"_That_ is the horcrux that Harry destroyed in his first year," Dumbledore averred, dropping the diary on his desk and glaring at Remus, as though daring him to object.

Remus, of course, complied. "And I can tell you though Voldemort may have _intended_ for it to be a horcrux, it most assuredly was not." Remus paused for a moment, meeting Dumbledore's eyes as something akin to a staring contest began between the two men. "This was confirmed by every scroll and history we could find."  
"Could the histories be wrong?"

"Very unlikely," was Remus's even answer. "The way to be certain, perhaps, would be to find something he had intended to be an inanimate horcrux and cast the detection spell at it. Since we do not have one, and the histories were very clear on what was able to be made into a horcrux, I think we have no choice but to proceed under the assumption that they are correct."

Again Harry saw a look cross the Headmaster's face which he had never seen before on the self-assured wizard: chagrin. "I apologize, Remus," Albus stated. "You caught me off guard. Please continue."

"Understandable," Remus replied. "The first reference that Tonks and I found was difficult for us to swallow as well. It took more corroborating evidence before we were finally convinced.

"But it is beyond refuting—a horcrux _must_ be a living being. As a piece of living matter, for want of a better term, a soul shard requires like matter to continue to exist. A magical artifact, no matter how enchanted or powerful, is still nothing more than an inert and dead object. A soul shard simply cannot continue to exist under those circumstances—it must have something to hold onto, and the only other thing it is able to attach itself to is another soul."

Remus turned back to the Headmaster. "What likely induced you to believe that the diary was a horcrux, is the fact that it is also documented that although the soul shard never takes hold of the intended magical object, the ritual—along with the mere fact that killing someone in cold blood, among other abominations, is required to allow the piece of soul to be extracted—is so foul that it leaves an echo of sorts on the intended object. The object appears to be evil and it has certain properties which make it dangerous, but it is not a true Horcrux.

"In fact, that is the reason why the detection spell was developed in the first place. The ritual was known to work, as those who created it were able to determine that the soul _was_ extracted. Conversely, a spell was also developed which, when used on a person, would confirm if they had an active horcrux. It made it much easier when determining whether someone could be killed without fear of them returning."

Remus halted his explanation for a few moments and Harry, though this discussion was in effect confirming the fact that there was nothing any of them could do for him, found himself fascinated by what he was hearing. Oh he was not fascinated by the concept of the horcrux itself—it was clearly an abomination. But the ingenuity of these people astounded him. Had the circumstances been different or the intent less disgusting, he could almost admire the person who designed the magic.

"In that case we may have a further problem," Dumbledore stated into the silence. "I was certain that Harry had destroyed a horcrux in the chamber. If it was not a horcrux, then what was at play there? How was Miss Weasley influenced to do as she did? Was there something else at work of which we have no knowledge?"

"Unfortunately, I cannot answer those questions," Remus replied. "But I believe we will have to address them again another time. There are other conditions of horcrux creation which may provide the answer, but I believe we should focus on what we know."

"Moony, I have a question," Harry blurted out. At the Marauder's motion he continued. "How does the horcrux affect me? It's not going to take over me and make me start doing things, is it?"

Smiling, Remus shook his head. "No Harry. The soul shard, even though it is attached to your own soul, cannot exert any control over you. You must think of this in relative terms—no matter how strong Voldemort is, only a small piece of his soul is attached to you. It can exert no influence over you. Its only purpose is to tie Voldemort to life. Unfortunately, that does not make it any less evil, and the consequences of being a horcrux any less severe."

With those comforting words, such as they were, Harry settled back into his chair to listen. For an instant, he had had visions of suddenly going mad and harming the two girls who were at the center of his life. He would not be able to live with himself if he allowed that to happen. But the relief he felt at that reassurance gradually began to dissipate as the true evil of the horcrux came out in Remus's explanation.

"Now, there are a few more things that you need to know before we truly get into the nature of the horcrux, as well as the historical events which verify our knowledge.

"First, you must know that a piece of soul removed from a person retains a connection back to the main portion of their soul. The soul, according to our research, though not completely understood, is of the body, and the body is part of the soul. The Egyptians found evidence to suggest that all of us _are_ souls."

"That's disgusting," Harry blurted, a feeling of being almost dirty washing over him. "Are you suggesting that if we all _are_ souls, that I have part of Voldemort's _body_ in me?"

More than one face blanched at that thought, but Remus shook his head. "Again, I cannot answer your question with any confidence, Harry. But even by the Egyptians, the soul was not completely understood. Whether the body and spirit combine to make the soul or not, I can assure you that Voldemort did not place a piece of his body in you when he made you into a horcrux. He didn't lose a finger, for example, in creating a horcrux."

The explanation did not truly comfort Harry very much, but he nodded his head, indicating for Remus to proceed. In truth he wanted to get this explanation over with so that he could go lick his wounds in private. This was turning out to be far more difficult than he had feared.

Remus continued, "When a piece of a soul is broken off, or perhaps more correctly, siphoned off, nothing of the soul is lost—you retain just as much of a soul as that which you started with. The soul is both infinite and finite, it is you and it is all of you, and nothing you do can ever lessen the amount of soul you have. It's a concept almost impossible to understand—if there is a higher power watching over us, it would be up to them to understand it.

"Regardless, if that portion which resides in a horcrux is ever destroyed, it… lessens the person, in ways not fully understood. Though nothing changes physically, they experience personality changes, becoming darker and more evil. Given the fact that you already have to be evil to cast the spell in the first place, there might not be a noticeable difference. The records were ambiguous on that matter.

"There is one thing that must be understood and is particularly pertinent to this discussion, as Voldemort tried to make horcruxes out of inanimate objects; a soul shard will not go willingly to an unsuitable vessel. If the creator tries to force a shard from his soul into something which will not sustain it, the soul piece will attempt to find a host it can latch onto. It only has an instant to do so, meaning that if nothing suitable is nearby, then it will dissipate completely. It cannot rejoin the original soul, as it was ejected in order to attach it to another, and is therefore, unwelcome, for want of a better word, with the greater part of the soul."

Dumbledore was watching Remus with a speculative eye, but it was Jean-Sebastian who broke in with a comment. "In that case, if Voldemort attempted to create multiple horcruxes, since he would likely have done it in secret, he may not have very many at all. There may only be one or two."

"That is true," Remus admitted. "But we know of one for certain, and I very much suspect we know of another."

"What do you mean?" Sirius asked.

"There are known to be two types of hosts, and each have different properties. The first type is a human. Humans are the best hosts as in essence we are all very similar in our makeup. If a human is used as a horcrux, then the piece of soul enters them and mingles with their own soul. In that way, the horcrux is sustained, and it is for that reason that a horcrux cannot be removed. To remove the bit of soul mingling with the host's, you'd have to go through every particle of the soul—though that's not truly an appropriate term—and remove the foreign soul one bit at a time."

"And the second type of host?" Dumbledore prompted.

"An animal," Remus said. "If a horcrux is made from an animal, then the soul piece attaches itself to the animal's own soul and lives off of it like a parasite. Because the animal is not a human, it cannot mingle in with it the way it does with a human, but since the beast is a soul in its own right, it is sufficient to sustain the soul shard and become a horcrux. The soul shard does provide certain benefits to the animal as well—it makes it stronger, more powerful, larger, and much more difficult to kill, not to mention influencing it much more toward evil. The soul shard… whispers to the animal, directing it to a certain extent, and giving it the appearance of much greater intelligence."

"Nagini," Dumbledore breathed.

"I suspect so, Headmaster," Remus replied. "I can't speculate on any of the other intended horcruxes as I'm not familiar with the circumstances of their attempted creation, but I suspect that he actually did create a horcrux of Nagini.

"Now," Remus continued, "there are also certain conditions which must be met when creating a horcrux from an animal. The most important one being that the intended horcrux _must_ be magical itself. If the animal is not magical, then the horcrux destroys it by feeding off of its very soul, leaving it a dried husk. Incidentally, this is also the case when one tries to make a horcrux from a Muggle. A soul is required for the soul shard to grasp and hold, but magic is required for the soul shard to be sustained, lest it feed directly on the host's soul to survive. How long it takes before a soul shard finally destroys a non-magical host totally depends on the size and makeup of the host to a certain extent. A field mouse, for example, would be consumed by the soul shard in a matter of moments. The magical creature must also be of some size, though that size was not specified. I expect a flobberworm, for example, could not be made into a horcrux, though a larger creature such as a thestral, likely could be. For a human it doesn't matter—any person, as long as they have their own innate magic, can become a horcrux." He turned and looked at Harry significantly. "The smallest baby or the oldest man on earth can be made into a horcrux, as long as they have magic."

"Most magicals who are willing to do something like this probably wouldn't want a Muggle to be their horcrux anyway," Harry opined.

"You are likely correct," said Remus. "But it is academic, as a Muggle will not serve anyway.

"Now we arrive at the most difficult part of this. You see, there are two ways for a Horcrux creator to return to life after they die. You have witnessed one, Harry—there are certain rituals which will assemble a constructed body, into which the soul may be inserted. This is rather imperfect. The body is _not_ the same body that the creator originally inhabited when he was alive, but rather one made up of different pieces bound together by magic."

"Voldemort looks… strange," Harry said hesitantly. "His skin is pasty, he speaks almost with a hiss, he has no hair, and his nose is kind of mashed in with his face."

"That's right, Harry," Remus agreed. "No construct is as good as the original body provided by nature. This way is certainly possible, as Voldemort demonstrated, but it is hardly ideal. In fact, there is a much easier and better way for Voldemort to have returned to life, had he known what to do.

"The other way to return is to simply follow the connection to the horcrux, and to take over the horcrux's body, displacing the soul to whom the body belonged."

By Harry's side, Fleur and Hermione gasped almost in tandem, while everyone else in the room was regarding Remus with expressions of mixed horror and disbelief.

"Then what happens to the soul that originally inhabited the body?" Harry asked, though he was reluctant to know. This whole thing was so repugnant that in truth Harry felt like vomiting. But it was real and seemed to be incontrovertible, and Harry wanted to know everything about it he could.

"It is forced from the body in favor of the horcrux creator's soul," Remus replied quietly. "A part of the Horcrux ritual contains a subjugation of sorts—the horcrux's soul becomes subservient to the horcrux maker's and it is forced from its own body when the creator's soul arrives to take over. There is no defense for the horcrux.

"What makes this even worse," Remus continued in an almost inaudible tone of voice, "is that the horcrux's soul does not pass on. It still maintains a connection to its own body, and also to the horcrux creator, almost like a sort of reverse horcrux."

It was horrible, almost beyond belief. To think _that_ fate awaited him should Voldemort ever learn of the true nature of what he had done was almost more than he could bear. Harry did not even want to contemplate it, though it was stark and clear, so he voiced a question which he was certain just about everyone else in the room was thinking about.

"Then why didn't Voldemort just take over my body when he had the chance? Hell, he's had several chances, since I ran into him more than once before he returned."

"That is the great mystery, isn't it?" Dumbledore interjected. "I think that we can safely assume that the reason he did not do so was that he simply did not know. Is that correct, Remus?"

"As near as we can tell," the Marauder confirmed. "We spoke of this with some of the knowledgeable society members while we were in Egypt. They suggested that Voldemort likely had some other artifact that he was intending to make into a horcrux when he attacked Harry that night in Godric's Hollow. But when he attempted to kill Harry, whatever Lily did to protect him caused the spell to backfire, and the soul shard entered Harry as the only living being close enough to serve as its host. Had the rest of Voldemort's soul simply followed his connection to the new horcrux—which was now Harry—he could have taken over Harry's body. We never would have known what he was up to, as to the world, he would have been Harry Potter, not Lord Voldemort.

"Now, another thing which you must understand is that this ritual does not grant true immortality. There is no known way for a person to cheat death indefinitely. The horcrux creator and the horcrux itself will continue to age as they normally would, and both bodies will eventually die. Nothing can stop that.

"However, I think you all understand that this can be a powerful tool for one with the will to use it." Remus stopped and stared around the room, catching the eyes of each person in the room. "If someone has the will and the knowledge, they may stave off the passing of their soul almost indefinitely. If they continue to make horcruxes they may simply follow the connection to a horcrux when the current body they inhabit dies. As long as they keep creating horcruxes and always have one available, they could always remain. In fact, if the horcrux creator continued to create horcruxes and move to new bodies, every one of those souls whose bodies he stole would continue to be tied to him without the possibility of passing on until the horcrux creator dies without a horcrux himself. And though it is, of course, not truly known, the soul being separate from the body is _not_ analogous to being a like the ghosts in Hogwarts. It is thought to be like an eternity of torment for the disembodied soul, as you are still connected to the one who stole your body, but you must watch as that body is used, grows old, and dies, and all under the stewardship of another. _That_ is the true horror of the horcrux."

"But I don't understand," Harry protested, choosing once again to ignore the consequences in favor of more immediate questions. "There has to be a limit to how many times a soul is split."

"The term 'split' is actually a misnomer," Remus replied. "The ancient Egyptians understood the soul better than any other people on earth, though even they did not possess a full knowledge. As I mentioned before, the soul is not _in_ you, it _is _you. According the ancient Egyptians, the soul is made up of the spirit and the body, and therefore, you don't _have_ a soul, you _are_ a soul. What actually happens through the Horcrux creation ritual, as that a minute portion of the soul is siphoned off from the rest and mingled in with the soul of the horcrux. And this is the primary reason why it is considered to be so much of an abomination—through magic, the horcrux creator is changing the very essence of the soul, being that of the spirit and the body together. Obviously, if a horcrux creator takes the body of the horcrux, he is changing the very nature of his own soul. In ancient Egypt it came to be known as the worst sort of abomination."

"Then surely the soul cannot be split so many times."

"Again, incorrect. We are once again speaking of topics which are imperfectly understood, but the spirit and the body combine to form the soul. It is both constricted to what fits into the body—including the body—and is infinite. What is known is that removing a portion of the soul does not in any measurable way lessen the amount of soul left behind, if such a thing can even be measured. The soul simply is—it cannot be quantified. As a result, there is no practical limit to the number of horcruxes which may be created.

"And that is why it is impossible to remove a horcrux from a human. Since the soul is infinite, it can never be done. It's something akin to cutting a bit of mold off a piece of cheese. You could do it if there was a bit of mold attached to the outside of the block. However, if the mold is mingled _throughout_ the cheese, there's simply nothing to cut off and impossible to separate the good from the bad."

It was in every way horrible. Not only was the spell much more dangerous than they had ever dreamed, but being forced from his body in favor of Voldemort was not something he even wanted to consider. Better to be dead, he thought, than to have Voldemort force him from his own body. But Harry was determined to remain strong, regardless of what it cost him.

By his side, the two girls so steadfastly supporting him were by no means as stoic as the front Harry was attempting to maintain. Hermione was looking lost and anguished, such as he had almost never seen her before. Fleur, by contrast had tears rolling down her cheeks—for a being whose powers were based on love, hearing of the sword poised over the head of one she held dear must be extremely difficult, especially for one who was as intrinsically a good person as Fleur. And all about the office long faces mingled with shock abounded. This was certainly beyond what any of them had ever expected.

It was left to Dumbledore to focus the attention of the group back on Remus's narration. "You mentioned that there were historical events which would illustrate what you discovered?"

"Yes, of course," Remus replied. "We were speaking of Ahmose, the first Pharaoh of the eighteenth dynasty. Now again, if you will recall, Ahmose was magical as was one of his sisters, though the rest of his siblings were not. There are a few other things which are known about him. First, he was fascinated by the subjects of life and death, and more specifically, because he was magical, felt that he was in a unique position to see to the needs of his people. Second, as he and his sister were the only members of the Egyptian royal family who were magical, he considered himself to be a blessing from the Gods. Clearly, the Gods had determined that one possessed of magic was destined to rule the people, and as such, those without magic could not be allowed to contaminate the line of the dynasty he was to found."

"So he was kind of like a Pureblood fanatic?" Harry asked.

"No, Harry," Remus replied. "The Egyptians at the time looked on those with magic as people who had a special ability, and the magicals themselves considered their magic to be a specific talent they possessed. There was little if any conflict between magicals and Muggles. Ahmose did not disdain those without magic, but as he himself had been born with magic to a non-magical line, he felt that he was special."

"I think the more accurate question," Jean-Sebastian interjected, "is how this plays into the discussion of horcruxes."

"Exactly," Remus confirmed. "You see, at the time, it was very common for siblings to be married, especially within the royal family. In Ahmose's case, the only one of his siblings he would even consider marrying was his one magical sister, as he considered to be pure, being both magical, and a member of his own family. As a result, they were married and she became his wife.

"However, that is not all. If you recall, he was convinced of his destiny to lead his people and his surety that only he could do it properly."

"He used horcruxes," Sirius said.

"He did," confirmed Remus. "But he did not use just anyone for a horcrux. When his eldest son was born, he conducted the horcrux ritual in secret, creating a horcrux of his son." Several gasps of shock resounded throughout the room. "Ahmose himself ruled for approximately 25 years, and when he passed on, he simply followed the link through to his son, Amenhotep, and ruled Egypt for approximately another twenty years in the body of his son. While occupying the body of Amenhotep, he fathered other children, again taking the eldest son and making them into a horcrux.

"This continued for over two and a half centuries. Ahmose would continue to marry his siblings—or his daughters, depending on how you look at it. Biologically they were actually his current body's siblings, though in reality they were all his descendents, and growing increasingly remote from his original body. For a time he actually made a horcrux of a daughter when he was not able to father a son, and he ruled as Hatshepsut, one of the only a few female Pharaohs, and one which history considers to among the greatest of all Pharaohs."

"If he was so concerned with keeping his line pure, then who did he marry while in the body of a woman?" Sirius asked.

"As he had no choice, he married a close cousin, the son of one of his previous body's siblings. But as his line continued, and as he continued marrying brother to sister, inbreeding began to sap the strength of his line and they became more prone to birth defects, poor health and other physical problems. By the time he had created his last horcrux, the line had grown unstable and weak. The last body he inhabited before he was finally killed was one which is quite well known in the Muggle world—a young boy king by the name of Tutankhamen."

"King Tut!" Hermione exclaimed. She then colored immediately in embarrassment. "Sorry. Like Remus said, Tutankhamen is very well-known in the Muggle world as his tomb was forgotten for many centuries, before it was discovered again only about seventy years ago. For many years it was rumored that there was a curse on the tomb as those who found it appeared to have died young."

"The existence of a curse is very possible, Hermione," Remus replied with a smile, "based on how Ahmose was eventually defeated, and the way his reign was reviled after he finally died. But we will get to that in a moment.

"Toward the end of Ahmose's line, it gradually became more difficult for him to create viable horcruxes, as his children would often be stillborn, born weak or prone to illness, often dying before reaching adulthood. Just before Tutankhamen he went through a succession of bodies, his children born when he was occupying the body of Akhenaten. Akhenaten was actually a strong Pharaoh—a brief throwback to when he was younger and his line stronger—who reigned for almost twenty years. But his children were all sickly. After his Akhenaten body died, he spent less than a year in the body of his eldest son, and then about two years in the body of another daughter. After that body died, he finally took the body of Tutankhamen, who was only nine at the time. This turned out to be his last body.

"By this time, it is suspected that he had begun to grow a little mad. Nothing much is known of how the move from body to body affects the spirit, but it has been theorized that this constant movement and the soul having existed in different bodies for many years, coupled with the fact that the bodies were becoming weaker and weaker, caused his mind to gradually break down. He began to exhibit signs of paranoia, growing distrustful of those around him and convinced that there was a plot to overthrow him. The ironic thing is that he was correct.

"At some point, his actions had been discovered though the means is unknown, but it was likely about the time he took over Tutankhamen. A number of his subordinates, convinced that what he was doing was blasphemous and immoral, began to plot against him, led by Horemheb, the commander of the Egyptian armies. By this time, however, Ahmose was fading fast. As Tutankhamen, he again married one of his sisters, but as they were both suffering from various frailties, she was unable to carry a child to term, losing one after about five months of pregnancy, while the other was stillborn.

"Ahmose was desperate to produce an heir and, more importantly, a viable potential horcrux. He conceived of a plan to have his wife killed and to marry a magical woman unconnected to him. This was extremely distasteful to him, but he was coming to the opinion that he had no choice, as he had no children, and his wife did not appear strong enough to bear him a child. A marriage to a cousin was briefly considered, but as his marriage when he inhabited Hapshetsut a century earlier had not strengthened his line appreciably, he decided he could not take the chance.

The ironic thing in all of this is if he had succeeded, the new blood might have fortified his line, allowing him to rule for many more years. Of course, he would have had to have survived long enough in his Tutankhamen body for any children to mature—the men plotting against him likely would have killed any children he managed to produce if he had died young in that body. As Pharaoh he could exert some control and provide for the safety or his children, as the Pharaohs were though to be deity themselves. If he had fathered children had lived through this other woman, but still died young as Tutankhamen, he likely would not have been able to protect them while residing in an infant's body.

"In the end, however, speculation is academic. His general, Horemheb, feigning a concern that he had not produced an heir yet, prodded him forward in his plan to marry this other woman. Horemheb convinced him to set up a secret meeting with the woman of his choice, and without the presence of his guards. It was then, when the Pharaoh was undefended that he struck, killing him. Wary of the people's reaction to the killing of a ruling monarch—who if you recall were considered gods themselves—Horemheb removed the body back to the palace where, with the assistance of other magicals, he made it appear as though Tutankhamen had broken his leg, and had died several days later of a resulting infection. He was so successful in his ruse, that many Muggle scientists and archaeologists to this day believe that was how he died.

"Ahmose was then succeeded by Ay, another conspirator who ruled for only four years—and who most Muggle historians believe to have been the real power behind Tutankhamen's throne. Then Horemheb finally deposed Ay and took over the throne. He was the last Pharaoh of the eighteenth dynasty.

"As a final footnote of this history, Horemheb was of the firm conviction that what Ahmose had done was beyond forgiveness, something which I cannot disagree with. It was at Horemheb's instigation that all records of horcruxes began to be collected and housed in a secure location so as to be removed from the world. This collection was later expanded to include other types of dark magic, and finally to include all kinds of magic. It was later placed in the library at Alexandria, and when the library was damaged, it was placed in a secret location and the Eye of the Pharaoh was born."

His recitation at an end, Remus fell silent and no one in the room appeared eager to speak up. The things that he had discovered seemed beyond dispute, not that Harry was inclined to do so anyway. In truth, he was more than a little numb. So much evil had been wrought by means of this spell which was devised all those centuries ago, and now it was happening again. At least this Ahmose, though misguided and misunderstanding certain things about human physiology—even if Harry had to admit that Ahmose's creating horcruxes from his children was truly an unforgiveable evil—had at least been a benevolent ruler, it appeared. Voldemort was not. He was out for nothing more than his own aggrandizement and his own selfish desires, and would undoubtedly use this power to kill millions if he was given the chance. The horcrux was a terrible tool in such a madman's hands.

"I guess we can be thankful that Voldemort doesn't know what a horcrux can do," Sirius stated into the silence, echoing Harry's thoughts rather neatly.

"But the question is, what can we do for Harry?" Hermione said.

"Nothing," Harry replied shortly. He was tired—bone tired—and though he knew that the girls and everyone were worried about him, he was beginning to get annoyed with the pitying looks. He realized that it was petty to a certain extent, but he also thought it was justified that he felt this way. What Remus had discovered was very clear. There was nothing that could be done—being a horcrux was a death sentence. But if he was meant to die in the struggle against the tyrant, at least he could make sure that he took Voldemort with him.

Hermione glanced up at him after his short reply, but Harry ignored her. "It's pretty clear what must be done. We have to make sure that Voldemort has no more horcruxes, and then we have to make sure there is no more Voldemort."

The Headmaster gazed at him with that calm inscrutable expression of his. "Just what are you suggesting, Harry?"

"That we get rid of him once and for all," Harry replied firmly. "Kill Nagini, confirm he has no more horcruxes, and then kill him once and for all. We can draw him into a confrontation or whatever—I don't care how we do it. But we have the advantage—Voldemort does not know that most of the horcruxes he tried to make are worthless and he won't be trying to make any more. He needs to go before he learns the truth."

"Harry, I think you need to calm down and consider this rationally," said Sirius.

"I'm calm, Sirius," Harry returned. And what is there to think of?"

"Well for one you can act a little less like a child!" Sirius snapped.

"If I'm acting like one, I think I have a right," Harry shot back. Shaking his head, and knowing that his carefully maintained control was crumbling, Harry stood and looked around the room. "I understand you are all concerned about me and I know that this information has been a shock. But what Remus has told us doesn't leave a whole lot of options. I will do what must be done—we just need to make sure we get Voldemort into a position where he can be killed, and I'm the best form of bait we have. I suggest we make use of the advantage we have."

"That is very noble of you," Dumbledore spoke up, neatly cutting off Sirius, who appeared about to launch into a rant. "But Harry, not all is lost. Remember what I told you—all magic can be countered and even if that counter has not yet been discovered."

"Professor, I would be forever grateful if you could find something which would get rid of Voldemort's soul. But I think we had best operate under the assumption that nothing can be done. Especially with all the attacks of the last few days. He has to be defeated—we have to do everything possible to make sure he never finds out what he could do with horcruxes."

"But Harry—"

Harry, however, was in no mood to listen any longer. "Look," he said, interrupting whatever Hermione was about to say, "I think I need to go and absorb this and maybe get some sleep." He turned to Remus and Tonks, who had been sitting quietly the whole time, uncharacteristically saying nothing. "Thank you both for your effort to find a solution—it really means the world to me.

"If it's okay with you, Professor, I think I'd like to get some sleep."

"That might be for the best," Dumbledore replied, with a quiet nod. "Thank you all for coming."

Harry turned to leave when he was arrested by the voice of the Headmaster.

"Harry… Remember that not everything is as dark as it initially appears. I think after a night's sleep it will not seem so bad."

Privately, Harry could not imagine that it would appear to be anything other than as hopeless as it was, but as he wanted nothing more than to leave and to be by himself, he nodded curtly at the Headmaster and swiftly exited. He took the circular stairs down toward the corridor two and three at a time and once he had reached the exit, stepped out into the passageway and quickly made his way from the office, heedless of the voices of the two girls who were calling out for him to wait.

He quickly strode up several corridors to the seventh floor, and pacing quickly back and forth called the Room of Requirement. He opened the door and stepped through it into a room which was something completely out of a gothic horror. The light was dim, the furnishings done in black, complete with snake like reliefs carved into the wood, and even the fire burning in the grate to one side of the room appeared to be muted, rather than a cheery, welcoming blaze like he would normally see in the common room. Harry did not care—he had not consciously thought of what he wanted, but apparently the room had picked up on his mood and provided it regardless. It did not really matter anyway.

Unfortunately, his momentary bemusement with the room caused him to forget his desire for solitude, and the girls arrived before he could shut the door properly. He wanted to yell at them to leave him alone, but by this point he could not even trust his emotions. Instead of saying anything, he moved into the center of the room, and stood staring at the fire, willing his mind to empty of all thoughts.

"Well, that is a… cheerful room you've conjured here," Hermione's voice floated up to him.

Harry did not reply; he merely grunted and continued to stubbornly stare into the fire. He felt rather than saw the two girls moving closer to him, wondering what he had to do to get them to leave him alone. It was a hopeless business, he decided, so he settled on simply ignoring them.

"Harry," Fleur spoke up hesitantly, as she placed her hand on his arm, "why did you run away from us?"

"I wanted to be alone," was Harry's short reply.

"You can't give up," Hermione said.

Unfortunately, those words were the catalyst which unleashed Harry's anger. He turned his burning gaze on Hermione and disengaged Fleur's hand from his arm roughly.

"Of course I will not give up!" he shouted. "I'll see that bastard dead if nothing else!"

"But Harry—"

"No, Hermione!" he yelled, cutting her words off. "There's nothing you can do! Not everything can be fixed by books or scrolls. I have to die to get rid of that bastard, but I swear to you both that I'll take him with me. I won't leave you both to a world where Voldemort is still out there poised to take control!"

As quickly as it came, his anger fled and he was left with nothing but sorrow and regret for the utter devastation of his life. He sagged down to his knees, tears streaming from his eyes, shaking his head in denial. Hermione and Fleur knelt down beside him and wrapped him up in their combined arms, imparting what comfort they could. Great sobs wracked his frame and for the first time that he could remember, he cried for the loss of innocence, the loss of his life, and the fact that he was not destined to live a long life in the company of these two who he loved above anyone else.

"I don't want to die now that I have something to live for," he managed to choke out in between his sobs. "Don't ever think that I want this. But I promise you both that I'll do whatever is necessary to get rid of Voldemort. I'll do it for both of you, even if it I wasn't already determined to do it because it's the right thing to do."

They stayed in this manner for some time and despite the situation, Harry found that he was able to find a modicum of comfort in the presence of the two beautiful ladies, and after a while, found that his emotions calmed significantly. It was then that he sniffled one last time and, after taking a wry look around the room, changed the décor to something brighter—and somewhat reminiscent of the common room—with a thought.

Then Harry looked into the faces of his girls—_his girls!_ Both were watching him closely, but he could see their sadness mixed with determination, rather than the pity he half expected to see. It heartened him a little—he imagined he could handle just about anything but pity from the two who meant the most to him.

Harry gazed into the eyes of the two girls—the beautiful ice blue eyes of his betrothed, and the deep and mesmerizing chocolate brown of his closest friend. One of them was more than any man could ever want—both of them together were an embarrassment of riches. Moved with an overwhelming feeling of love, Harry moved in and placed a soft and loving kiss on the lips of each one in turn. The kisses were sweet and passionate, for all that they were short, and though they helped calm Harry significantly, he could not help but feel like they were the beginning of his good-byes to both girls.

"I love you, Fleur. I love you, Hermione. I will do anything necessary to keep you both safe. If it means my life, then so be it."

"We'll find a solution, Harry," Hermione said, her typical determination shining through.

"We won't let you face this alone," added Fleur.

And for one shining moment, Harry allowed himself to feel that it was not all completely bad. It was still too new, too raw for hope. But perhaps everything was not quite as black as he thought.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Thanks to everyone who has continued to stick with this story, even though I teased you all with this chapter for some time! I'm posting this chapter a little later than I had hoped, because I've been nitpicking and tweaking it for the better part of the past week. Enough is enough, and here it is.

2. So the main reveal concerning horcruxes is now out. I may not be the first to come up with the idea that a horcrux _must_ be a living being (though generally I've seen the opposite if anything) but I personally have not seen it done before. To be honest, it makes more sense to me this way. It would seem obvious that a soul piece has to leech off of another soul to survive, though you could certainly make arguments either way. Regardless, I think it's a nice tweak on JKR's original idea, and a serious curveball for them all. By the way, if you think that some of the explanation—particularly that about the nature of the soul—is difficult to understand, you're right in one. It's intended to be that way, as the concepts are intended to be impossible for the mortal mind to comprehend. Think Nicene creed type stuff, which talks about the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost as one being, yet separate beings, etc.

3. If you look up the Pharaohs of Egypt I mentioned in this history, you'll find that they're all historical figures (according to wikipedia). When I was building the idea of how the horcrux came to be and was researching the history of the Pharaohs, the account of Tutankhamen caught my interest. Reading about King Tut and how he had married his sister, but was unable to have children, gave me the idea which became the history in this chapter. Thus, all the Pharaohs I mentioned, including the estimated dates of their reigns, are all accurate, but of course embellished with the account of the mad, horcrux creating Ahmose I.

4. Now some of you will immediately question Remus's explanation, saying that there are still unanswered questions, specifically regarding Harry's fight with the basilisk, which would appear to be contradictory to the information Remus imparted in this chapter. I do have a plan which will explain everything, which will come out during the second part of the horcrux reveal. For the purposes of giving Harry a break and not dumping it on him all at once, and perhaps more importantly, creating further dramatic tension, I decided to break up the reveal into two parts. I have also alluded to it before, but when we get to the next part of the reveal, I'll hit you with the single largest plot twist in the story.

5. I did some figuring out this past week, and I realized that if I continue to post every two weeks, I will not finish posting until some time next June. As I really want to get it done, I've decided to move to a weekly posting schedule, even though I'm not as far ahead in the writing as I want to be. What this means is that, assuming I can keep up with the weekly writing, the entire work will be posted by the middle of January. I will attempt to keep to that schedule from now until then, but there still may be instances where a chapter slips a week.

6. Finally, I promised many chapters ago that when we arrived at this point I would post some more teasers. So here they are:

Chapter 58: Another assassination attempt and Harry makes a discovery.  
Chapter 59: The second major engagement of the war.  
Chapter 60: The truth about horcruxes part 2.  
Chapter 62: The Ministry swept for Death Eaters. A confrontation with a professor.  
Chapter 63: A plan becomes reality.  
Chapter 65: Title – "Battle of the Horcruxes."

I think that will just about do it for now. More coming when we get past this bunch!


	58. Chapter 57 – Desolation

**Previously: **Remus shares what he has found out about horcruxes. Among other things, horcruxes must be made of living beings, either magical humans or animals, and they cannot be removed by any known method.

* * *

**Chapter 57 – Desolation**

The day following the horcrux revelation was tense—perhaps unsurprising given Harry's state of mind. Harry was not precisely petulant or self-pitying, but some of the former qualities of his character—his moodiness and tendency to snap at others with little provocation—had once again made an appearance. And though Hermione could see that he was trying to control his temper, his success was at times indifferent.

Initially Hermione had felt that his frame of mind had improved substantially after sleeping on it, as he had awoken in a quiet and contemplative mood. They had done something the previous night that none had ever done before—all three of them had slept together in the same bed. After Harry's breakdown upon entering the Room of Requirements, Hermione and Fleur had determined that Harry should not be alone that night. A quick request to the room, and they had a bed more than large enough to accommodate them all and, after smothering a half-hearted protest from Harry, they had led him to the bed and curled up with him in between, all of them falling into an exhausted slumber only a few moments later.

Upon waking that morning, Hermione gazed at the face of the young man she loved so very dearly, wondering at the vagaries of fate. If fate did exist, then it had no sense of fairness, as it continually heaped more on Harry's head than anyone should have to bear. It was all Hermione could do not to rail against the unfairness of it all.

One unexpected benefit of the situation—if it could be called that—is that it focused Hermione's attention away from the horror of Malfoy's attempted abduction and onto Harry's situation. For the first time since it had happened, her sleep had not been interrupted by nightmares, though admittedly those had lessened to a certain extent on their own. Or, it was equally possible that sleeping alongside Harry had banished the dreams. That thought filled her with a warmth, the likes of which she had never before felt. If only the experience could become one which would last a lifetime.

A motion from Harry's other side caught Hermione's attention and, carefully so as to avoid disturbing Harry, she propped herself up on her elbow and peeked over the side of her slumbering boyfriend. The blinking blue eyes of her closest female friend met her gaze, and Fleur smiled.

"Did you sleep well?" Fleur asked, her voice still thick with sleep.

"Better than ever," Hermione replied.

Fleur smiled and burrowed in closer to Harry's side. "I believe I could get used to this."

"You and me both."

Hermione allowed herself to fall silent for the next several moments as Fleur came to full wakefulness.

"What are we going to do?" Fleur asked into the silence.

"Whatever we have to," Hermione replied with determination. "Dumbledore said that every magic has some way to undo it. We just need to find it."

Fleur nodded, though Hermione could tell that her manner was anything but confident. She said nothing negative about the situation, however. Instead she said, "We will have to keep Harry positive at the same time. I doubt that will be easy."

Fleur's words ended up being prophetic. When he awoke, Harry appeared to be much as he ever was, though perhaps a little quieter than usual. He thanked Fleur and Hermione for their care and concern and suggested that they make their way back to Gryffindor tower to shower before breakfast.

"Harry," Hermione asked hesitantly, "don't you want to talk about what we learned last night?"

"Not really," Harry replied. "What's the point? I think I'd prefer to focus on beating Voldemort."

Neither girl liked this response; it was not like Harry to be so fatalistic. Still, he had a right to be so, Hermione supposed. It was better than having to deal with an angry Harry. Unfortunately, that was still to come.

At his suggestion, they did return to the tower, separating and agreeing to meet once again in the common room once they had completed their preparations for the day. Unfortunately, Hermione's absence the previous night had not gone unnoticed by her gossipy and overly nosy roommates. It was equally unfortunate that said roommates were genetically incapable of keeping quiet on the matter.

"Hermione!" Lavender squealed as Hermione stepped into the room. The two girls were situated in front of their mirrors doing up their makeup when Hermione entered the room, though they soon rose to usher her over to a chair.

"It didn't escape our notice that a certain _someone_ didn't sleep in her bed last night. Have a hot date or something?"

Hermione was irritated. Though the two of them certainly could not know, Harry was dealing with a serious matter which may end up in his death and all they could think about was something so completely inappropriate. Forcing herself to swallow her pique—they had no way of knowing the details, after all—Hermione fixed Lavender with a serious glare.

"I suggest you don't say anything like that with Harry around. I doubt very much he would appreciate it."

She rose to leave, but the two gossipy girls were not to be deterred.

"It must have been a really good time if you're this defensive," Parvati teased. "Come on, girl—you two have been on the path for this all year. Let us know how it was with your dream hunk."

Hermione looked at the two of them with a frown. "Do you two really think that I slept with Harry? Don't you both know me by now?"

"Of course we know you," Parvati replied.

"But I'm betting you know first hand how well he kisses," Lavender added. "We're just curious. For academic purposes, you understand."

Had the situation been other than what it was, Hermione might have blushed and murmured a few words before she retreated in a hurry. She was definitely not excited about the prospect of talking about such matters with the two of them who were, after all, not truly her friends—they were really more acquaintances than anything else, though she supposed they had both been nicer this year and they had become much friendlier, in all fairness. But the utter pettiness of the gossip the two girls were searching for paled in comparison to what Harry was facing, and filled her with a measure of anger for their trivial concerns.

"Sorry, but I'm not going to answer any questions like that."

After directing a final glare at the two chatty girls, both of whom appeared to be taken aback by her words, she departed for a quick shower. Unfortunately, neither girl took it as the warning it was, instead choosing to view it as nothing more than Hermione's natural reticence.

When Hermione and Fleur had rejoined with Harry and made their way to the Great Hall to breakfast, Lavender, though in a voice quieter than was her wont, tried to obtain a little more information.

"So, Harry," she said, her voice alive with girlish excitement, "did you have a hot date with your two girls last night?"

She turned to those nearby at the table and said, as though she was imparting a state secret, "Hermione didn't return to the dorms last night, and the rumor is that you and Fleur were out all night too." She turned a glance at the three in question. "Looks like things are getting cozy between the three of you."

To his credit, Harry ignored her, though Hermione could tell from his expression and the flexing of his jaw muscles that it was a near thing. Knowing that further discussion on the matter may provoke an explosion, Hermione fixed a warning glare on Lavender.

"I think you should drop the subject, Lavender?"

Even that did not deter the obtuse girl. "Why are you embarrassed, Hermione? Don't worry—your relationship with Harry is about the worst kept secret in the school."

It was this that finally prompted a response from Harry. "Don't speak of things which you know nothing about," he said harshly.

Then rising, he grabbed his things and stalked from the room without a backward glance. Lavender looked somewhat taken aback at his abrupt dismissal—whatever Harry's personality flaws were, he was generally not known to be rude—and Hermione felt that something should be said to excuse Harry's behavior.

"I think you should leave Harry alone today. He's got a lot on his mind and he's not likely to take well to teasing."

With that Hermione rose to her feet and made to leave, but not before Lavender rose and put a hand on her arm. "When you see Harry, tell him I didn't mean anything by it."

"I know you didn't, Lavender," Hermione said with a sigh. "And I'm sure he knows it too. But sometimes others might be a little offended by teasing and gossip, especially when they have important things on their mind."

Lavender's expression was contrite, and not a little morose. She did not reply, but she did nod her head before sitting down. Hermione squeezed her shoulder with compassion before she made her way from the hall, intent upon catching Harry. However, Hermione and Fleur were not able to locate Harry before the start of class, and as Hermione started with Arithmancy that morning, it was the period just before lunch when she was finally able to see Harry.

Her inquiries into his whereabouts were firmly but politely rebuffed. "Sorry, Hermione, but I think I need a little time on my own to think and come to terms with this."

"Oh, Harry," she replied, engulfing him in an embrace, "I know it's hard. I just want to help."

"I know, Hermione," said Harry with a ghost of a smile. "You and Fleur are the best girls a guy could ever want. I'm the luckiest guy in world. Please just give me some time and space."

"I will, Harry," Hermione said, leaning up to buss his cheek with a kiss. "Just remember that Fleur and I are always there for you."

Harry nodded and, surprisingly, made his way toward Lavender, where he offered an apology to her for his words earlier in the Great Hall. Lavender, however, would have nothing of it.

"I should be the one to apologize, Harry. Hermione told me that I shouldn't tease you and I didn't listen to her."

The two Gryffindors having made up, Harry and Hermione made their way to the desks and sat next to each other for the class.

This began a pattern for the next several days. Harry remained uncommunicative with everyone, even herself and Fleur. Hermione's closeness with Fleur never wavered—in fact the ordeal brought them closer to one another than they had been before. They knew that it was their responsibility to try to keep Harry upbeat, but it was difficult to do so when Harry often sequestered him away from the concerned gaze of his friends.

As she was left at loose ends much of the time, she began spending every moment she could in the library, searching for an answer, hoping against hope that something would present itself. But as information on Horcruxes was nonexistent, she began focusing on the dark arts and any other piece of information she could find. It seemed a fruitless endeavor. But Hermione was not about to give up. Too much was at stake.

* * *

Ron Weasley knew that something was wrong with his best friend. Though others would point out to Harry's avoidance that day and the way he had snapped at Lavender that morning as evidence, Ron could see other signs which pointed to trouble. For one thing, his moods were back to what they had been last year, as though the previous year had never happened. For another, Harry, who had never been overly concerned with thinking about the past, was suddenly wistful. And Ron did not miss the fact that he was even avoiding Fleur and Hermione, the ones with whom he could be found more often than not this past year.

That Wednesday at the regular club meeting, Harry's behavior returned to a semblance of what it had been before. He was focused on the lesson for that week, which seemed to afford him the ability to put whatever was bothering him from his mind.

His behavior was something which drew the attention of the some of the rest of the group, or more particularly, those who had known him the longest—Neville, Ginny and the Twins in particular, though Daphne and Luna did express their concern within the range of Ron's hearing.

After the meeting had adjourned that day, Harry was on the move almost as soon as he had dismissed them, quitting the room, supposedly to return to Gryffindor tower and to his bed as soon as possible. Worried for his friend and wanting to help, Ron, in the company of his other friends, approached Hermione with the intention of coaxing her to reveal all that she knew. After all, if anyone could be said to be an authority on all things Harry Potter, that person was Hermione, and it was inconceivable that she would not know what was bothering Harry.

"What's going on, Hermione?" Ron demanded. "The entire club can see that Harry's a little off, so don't try to put us off."

Surprisingly, Hermione did not attempt to prevaricate, as she was often inclined to do when it came to Harry.

"I can't say," Hermione replied. "It's up to Harry whether he wants to tell anyone about it."

Ron eyed Hermione with some exasperation. "But you _do_ know what his problem is?"

"I do, but I can't say anything. It's not my story to tell."

"Hermione, we can't help if we don't know what is happening," Neville said.

"I know," Hermione said while favoring them all with an affectionate smile. "I know Harry appreciates your support. But I can't say anything. It's up to Harry to decide if he wants to say anything."

Ron was not exactly content to let it go, but he appreciated the fact that Hermione was clearly as loyal to Harry as ever. "Maybe I should talk to him."

"I really don't think that would be a good idea." Hermione approached and rested an affectionate hand on his arm. Ron tried not to reveal his rising pique at being told that he could not speak to _his friend_ as he knew that Hermione would never suggest his forbearance if she did not have a good reason for doing so. Knowing that did not make it easier to bear.

"Can you talk to him then?" Ron asked, desperately wanting to help his friend. "He listens to you. I just want him to know that we're all here for him."

"I will Ron," Hermione replied. "But it's his decision to make."

Ron nodded—it was the only thing he could do in the situation. In the end Harry would decide what he wanted everyone to know. He hoped that Harry looked to recent times rather than last year when he thought of Ron's friendship in general. Ron knew he had come a long way since then.

* * *

David Greengrass was worried. In the two days since the Dark Lord's forces had struck the ministry, the attacks had not let up. Several more targets had been hit including several prominent families, not to mention a number of family businesses, generally those which were located in out of the way areas. No major targets had been hit—other than the Ministry building, of course—so places such as Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, and even St. Mungo's, were all as of yet unmolested.

But that was not what he was worried about.

The fact of the matter was that up until that Wednesday morning, David knew that none of the traditionally neutral families had been attacked as of yet, and he knew better than to think that they would be left alone this time. The alliance between most of them and Dumbledore's bloc had not exactly been published, but he would be naïve in the extreme to assume that the Dark Lord did not know about it. And then there was the fact that Morgan had been killed for voting for the execution of the eleven Death Eaters captured at the Ministry; David had voted for those executions as well, and he knew that though he had not agreed to support the Dark Lord in any manner, he had been courted, and therefore, must become a target.

But regardless of the increased danger, David could not second guess his actions. Hearing of what Malfoy and the others had done in the service of their master had been sickening, and David knew that he could not be a party to such abominations, even to keep his family safe. And how safe would they be, when death was only a madman's displeasure away? It was in every way unfathomable.

The comfort was that those who were of a like mind with David had all prepared and made themselves as safe as they could possibly be. David's family all carried emergency portkeys and had been instructed to use them at any indication of trouble—the portkeys would take them to a private room in his warehouse, which was under the Fidelius charm with himself as the secret keeper. In fact, his youngest children—his heir, a lad of seven, and the youngest girl who was three—were already holed up in the family rooms at the warehouse, which he had added in order to house his family when the inevitable happened. Only his third daughter, Shea, was still with her parents, and David would have preferred that she was with her siblings as well. At least his two eldest were safe in Dumbledore's care at Hogwarts.

Though, David supposed that to say that Daphne and Astoria were strictly under Dumbledore's care was somewhat erroneous. Dumbledore was certainly the major player in the school, but increasingly, it appeared like Harry Potter was taking a much more active role. David had been impressed with the young man he had met at the ball the previous yuletide season, and given the young man's activities at the Ministry and the club Daphne had written about, Potter was beginning to exert more influence on events, especially those at Hogwarts.

David, the same as many others, wondered what the Dark Lord wanted with the young man. Given what his daughters had told him of Potter's activities over the first five years of his time at Hogwarts, it was clear that the Dark Lord had focused on him. Yet why would the Dark Lord focus on a neophyte wizard, not yet out of his fifth year of schooling? For that matter, had the Dark Lord actually attacked _Harry Potter_ rather than the parents those fifteen years ago? If so, David could not be certain what the Dark Lord saw in the young man which would give him such an impetus to kill him, but it appeared to be indisputable that something far from normal was happening between them. It had been for that reason, as much as any, that David had finally decided to throw his lot in with Dumbledore's alliance. Harry Potter would obviously be force in this world, assuming he survived the attention of the Dark Lord, and it eventually be very desirable for the Greengrasses to be aligned with him. It did not hurt that the young man was truly likeable as well.

The days of waiting for an attack came to an abrupt halt that Wednesday, though given David's preparation, the family was not in as much danger as they could have been.

They had just sat down to lunch when the wards began the screeching which signaled the beginning of an attack. Sharing a worried look with his wife, Angelique, David stood and ushered her daughter to her mother.

"Take Shea and go to the warehouse, while I make sure the house-elves get out," he instructed.

Angelique frowned at his instructions. "We should leave as a family, David."

"I will be along immediately," David replied, worriedly shooing them away. As he was doing so, the loud sound of breaking glass reached them, the indication that the wards had fallen. "Go now, Angelique!"

Though obviously still worried, Angelique activated the portkey and she and his middle child departed from the room, leaving David by himself. He called the two house-elves to him and sent them on their way, and then hunkered down in a protected corner, waiting for the first Death Eaters to come through the door. Perhaps it was not prudent for him to tempt fate this way, but he wanted to give these Death Eaters a message before he retreated.

It was only a few moments before the sounds of approaching feet alerted him to the fact that he would soon have company. As the first Death Eater set foot in the room, David stood and cried, "_Reducto!_" watching with satisfaction as his spell impacted the man in his side, and sprayed the contents of his stomach over the wall behind him, as he went down in a heap, a rather large hole where his left side used to be.

The reply was a hail of spellfire through the open door, but as the remaining Death Eaters could not see him, their spells were well wide of his location. Knowing that he only had seconds, David palmed his portkey.

"You tell your master, V-Voldemort, that he will get nothing from me!" David yelled.

"You fool!" a familiar voice screamed in response. David knew that voice—it was the man the Dark Lord had sent to bully him into joining his ranks. "After we've killed you, your wife and daughters will entertain us for hours!"

"Idiot!" David spat. "My family is long gone from here, and I will be too in a moment. You may burn this house down if you like, but we've been prepared to abandon it for weeks. You'll never find us where we are going!"

With that, he activated the portkey, seeing the face of the Death Eater peek in through the door as he was leaving, an expression of malevolent rage on his face. A moment later, David landed in the private rooms of his warehouse, to the relieved smiles of his wife and children. They had been forced to flee their home, but they were all unharmed and undaunted. Now it was time to make sure the proper authorities were aware of what had happened.

* * *

"You can't take this on yourself," Sirius was saying to his only remaining Marauder friend. "You were nothing more than the messenger. If you want to blame it on someone, then put it on Voldy's shoulders."

Remus sighed and leaned back on his chair in Sirius's quarters. His friend had been in a funk since the explanations the previous night, and Sirius was not about to put up with it. Harry needed their support, not to mention a bit of a positive attitude. He was far too prone to moroseness himself, and seeing Remus in such a state would not help Harry's state of mind.

"I know that, Sirius," Remus said after a moment. "It just seems…" He paused and ran his hand through his hair. "We promised—promised on _Marauders' honor!_—that we'd protect him. Seems to me we haven't done a very good job of it. Wherever he is, James is probably furious with us."

With a grunt, Sirius sat himself in a nearby chair. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, Remus had the right of it. From his impetuous attempt at revenge on Wormtail—who still had to pay for his crimes, Sirius reminded himself firmly—to Remus's isolation, to the fact that neither of them, because of their disparate problems and circumstances, had been there for Harry's childhood, there were a lot of ways in which they had failed their friend's son. Sirius was not at all prone to much introspection—he had always been the doer of the group rather than the thinker—but it did not take much to admit that they had been at fault.

But now was not the time for self-recrimination, though a certain part of Sirius would have loved to wallow in the grief of his own making. Now was the time to be strong for Harry. Maybe in some small way they could both begin to make amends for the mistakes they had made.

"I can't disagree," Sirius finally said. "But we need to be there for Harry _now_." Sirius paused and sighed. "You don't know what it's been like here, Moony. Harry seemed like he had put the whole thing behind him and I thought he was happier than I had ever seen him before. This has hit him hard, and it might be difficult for even his two lady friends to pull him out of it."

Remus's attention was pricked. "_Two lady friends?_"

Sirius smirked. "Well, it seems our little Prongslet is as smooth as his father was. You know Hermione has always carried a flame for him." At Moony's nod, Sirius said, "Well, it looks like he finally did something about it. Though come to think of it," he said, sitting back and thinking of their interactions over the past weeks, "it may be that Hermione and Fleur took matters into their own hands."

Moony's eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "Really? I know that he's a candidate for a multiple marriage, but if this is at Fleur's instigation, that's a remarkably selfless thing for her to do."

"I don't have any information one way or another. But I can tell you that I have never seen Fleur upset at the closeness those two share. I know that she spoke about the situation with her mother and I think she simply bowed to the inevitable. That and as a Veela she is almost certain to be unable to give him a son."

Frowning, Moony stared back at Sirius askance. "Veela give birth to a preponderance of girls and have difficulty having children in the first place," Sirius explained. "That was one of the first things Jean-Sebastian mentioned to me when I contacted him about the contract."

"I can see where that would be a big deal," Remus murmured.

A sly look on his face, Sirius slyly commented, "You know, James might have had a plural marriage had Voldy not shown up."

Remus snorted. "Not with Lily as his wife. Besides, didn't he have some cousins alive back then?"

"He did," Sirius confirmed. "But they were killed by Death Eaters before Harry was born."

"Well it's all academic now," Remus stated. "And we're getting a little far afield here." Remus looked at him closely. "What do you suggest we do?"

"You know that Dumbledore will not simply let this slide. He'll turn over every stone trying to find an answer."

"And unless he pulls something out of his hat, he won't find anything, Sirius," Remus replied pointedly. "The histories were _very_ specific."

"Every magic has a counter, Mr. Lupin," Sirius said in what he thought was a very passable imitation of Dumbledore's all-knowing voice. Remus just rolled his eyes. "You and I both know what is Dumbledore is capable of. If a solution does not exist, then he'll come up with one. It's up to you, me, Hermione, Fleur, and all of his friends to keep his spirits up and make him believe that we will find a solution."

Sirius paused and leaned back in his chair. "In fact, I can't see Hermione or Fleur letting go of this either, and you know how smart they both are. Harry's probably focused more on what this means for his future, and how to take Voldy down before he buys it himself. You know how _he_ is. But I wouldn't put it past our resident human library and her friend to figure something out themselves."

"I'd have to say that you have them all pegged to a tee," Remus replied.

"So, are you with us then?"

"I'm in," Remus replied in his quiet conviction. "Maybe I will offer Dumbledore my assistance in researching the answer. I was always the studious one, you know."

"That's the spirit, Moony!" Sirius replied, slapping his friend's back. "Between the bunch of us, we'll drag Harry through this, even if he kicks and screams the whole way."

* * *

The pace and ferocity of the attacks were increasing, and the Ministry's forces were struggling to keep up with them. It appeared like Voldemort had an unlimited number of resources upon which to draw, and a murderous and implacable will to use them. Sitting in the remains of her office, Amelia considered the matter. At this point, Voldemort's return had only been acknowledged for a mere two weeks—less even—and his attacks had only been renewed for the past two days. But already, the mood in Wizarding Britain was approaching what it had been at the height of the first war.

In the first war, Voldemort had relied on the terror of the possibility of attack to keep the population in check, but in reality, while there had certainly been many attacks, they had been more limited, and more like surgical strikes against specific targets, rather than all out war. They had certainly killed many, but there had also been many which had been designed simply to terrorize and cow the populace. This time, the attacks were already far more frequent, and thus far there had not been any cases where there had not been fatalities if the targets had been caught before they could flee. Luckily, the populace had also wised up a certain extent from the first war, as many had prepared themselves and their families for attack. The portkey office was almost overwhelmed with requests for emergency portkeys, leading to the piece of legislation which had just been passed by the Wizengamot that morning.

Only certain people had the authority to create portkeys, but this bill relaxed those restrictions, so that anyone who was able could now create their own portkeys, as long as they were intended to be used to escape an attack. Of course the creation of a portkey was not an insignificant thing and there would still be those who were unable to create them properly. The portkey office would still handle those situations, but in a much more expeditious manner than previously.

With that, Amelia was not certain how much more could be done to help the people prepare for the potential of attack. Kingsley had created several rapid response teams which were standing by at all times of the day and night to go to areas which were under attack, but far too often, the Death Eaters had already done what they came to do and left by the time the Ministry forces arrived on the scene. Much as in the first war, everyone needed to take responsibility for their own safety to a certain extent, as it was simply not possible for the Auror force to protect everyone at once.

Amelia herself had taken to sleeping at the Ministry. The Floo system was back up, but it was potentially compromised, meaning that to go through it was tempting fate. The portkeys could still be used, but since the attack, the creation of portkeys within the Ministry building itself had been locked down to only a few trusted officials—namely herself, Dumbledore, and Shacklebolt. And leaving the building to apparate out to her home was simply out of the question, as that would put her in a vulnerable position for the few moments she was outside. She was better off in the Ministry, and with that in mind, she had had a Fidelius placed on her home with herself as the secret keeper. Hopefully, that way it would still be standing once the fighting was over.

A loud knocking startled her from her thoughts and she looked up to the ruined wall of her office—there had not yet been time or resources available to return it to its former state—to see a grim-faced Kingsley Shacklebolt standing there.

"More good news, Kingsley?" she asked, aware that her own voice sounded fatigued.

"I just received word that the Greengrass residence has been attacked by Death Eaters."

Amelia sat up straight at this information; the Greengrasses had sided with Dumbledore, leaving centuries of being traditional neutrals behind them, and bringing a substantial chunk of the neutral faction with them. Albus had confided in her that it had either been ally with them, or be forcibly conscripted into the ranks of Voldemort's forces. Though she could not claim to know David Greengrass well, she fancied she knew enough of him to know what his answer would have been to that ultimatum.

"Casualties?"

"It would have been impossible to tell," Kingsley replied, entering her office and taking a seat in front of her desk, "had David Greengrass not shown up in the Auror department twenty minutes ago. He informed us himself of the attack only minutes before the Dark Mark was spotted above the remains of their home. As it is, the two eldest are at Hogwarts, as I believe you know. The two youngest were already in a safe location, and the Greengrasses escaped with the middle daughter when they heard the wards fall."

_That_ was a relief. "And their home?"

"Destroyed by fiendfyre."

Amelia frowned stonily. Fiendfyre was so hot and uncontrollable, that it might not even have left a trace of bodies, had anyone been caught in it, hence the reason for Kingsley's original comment. It was a good thing that fiendfyre burned so hot that it burned itself out quickly, or indiscriminately setting such a fire could sweep across the country leaving devastation in its wake.

"At least the family is safe," Amelia muttered. "But it looks like Voldemort has lost patience with the neutrals."

"Former neutrals, more like," Kingsley replied. "I will have a full report of today's attacks after the teams report back. Right now, it looks like there have been about a dozen more today."

Amelia just nodded her head while massaging her temples. "It's not like the first war," Amelia said quietly.

"At least they are ignoring the Muggle world," Kingsley replied. "We were on the verge of having the magical world exposed last time."

Nodding, Amelia fixed the director with a stern glare. "How are you coming with the interrogations?"

"We've almost finished. But they are all saying essentially the same thing. We need Dumbledore here to give his assistance—this is much more dangerous than the first war."

"I know," said Amelia. "But I want all the facts before we get the council together. Let's not explain the situation more than once." Kingsley nodded. "And what of your plans to sweep the Ministry for Death Eaters?"

"We are just about ready. I've quietly identified a core group of Aurors who have been verified to be loyal. We'll need to move cautiously, but I think we can root them out without too much difficulty before long."

"Good," Amelia replied. "The Auror corps and Hit Wizards first, then the department heads, and then every worker in this building. I don't want a single Death Eater among the workers left to wreak havoc on us. Let's make this building as safe as we can—then we can ramp up our efforts to counter what Voldemort is doing out there."

"Of course, Minister," Kingsley replied. "Now, I believe I should get back to the DMLE."

Waving him off, Amelia turned her attention back to the documents on her desk, though to be truthful they really could not hold her attention. They were moving toward crippling Voldemort's ability to interfere with the Ministry's effectiveness, but it was still too slow for Amelia's peace of mind. These things did take time, but time was something which was in short supply. People were dying. It was her responsibility to save as many as she was able.

* * *

Harry's state of mind was not that far off from what Hermione had imagined. Though he tried to be the same as he ever was, he knew that his success was abysmal, and that Ron and his other friends had seen through his act in an instant. He truly tried to care, but if he was honest with himself, he knew that he did not. His friends might worry over him, but they were not the ones who had to deal with the knowledge that they had to die to free the world from the ambitions of one of the most evil men ever to walk the face of the earth. That burden was his and his alone.

The good feelings of earlier in the year—even after he had first been told of the horcrux—had evaporated leaving nothing but desolation, and even bitterness behind. It was too much to hope that he would be left alone to life his life with his loves. No, he was Harry Potter, and desolation seemed to be his lot in life, no matter what he tried to do to live an ordinary life.

So, Harry took to avoiding everyone as much as possible, even the two young women who were the center of his life. He loved them and he was even able to admit that they helped him to forget about his troubles when he was with them. But inevitably, time in their presence would remind him that he was not destined to be with them for long, and his contented and almost happy mood would turn sour. With that specter always hanging over him when they met, it was just easier to avoid them, though doing so also brought its own set of heartbreaks. He _wanted_ to be with them. He wanted to hear Hermione's affectionate laugh, to listen to Fleur's beautiful voice as she spoke of something with excitement and passion. And most of all, he longed to find peace and comfort in their arms. But it was too painful, so he nursed his feelings of bitterness in solitude.

In those initial days, he actually spent most of his waking moments in the Room of Requirement, or at least when he was not in classes, or at mealtimes, though he did skip a fair few of those as well. He always made it so that no one else could find him when he was using the room, and although Hermione and Fleur did not say anything to him, it was clear by their looks of betrayal that they had tried to find him there. He felt guilty for shutting them out as much as he had, but it was really for the best this way.

And his time in the room had given him time to work off his frustrations. The room had, as always, provided him with a perfect practice dueling gym, complete with dummies on which to take out his frustrations, and even some which had limited ability to fight back. Harry was not certain, having no one against whom to measure himself, but he thought that even in a short time, he was improving by leaps and bounds. It was ironic—he now had no indication whatsoever that he would survive this conflict himself, but knowing that he was not going to remain to protect the girls filled him with the will to better himself so that he could make damned certain that Voldemort would not survive either. The man would pay for the atrocities he had committed, and would join the likes of Lucius Malfoy in hell—of this Harry was determined!

At least Jean-Sebastian and Apolline were not there to take him to task for his behavior. They had spent the first day after the attack in Hogwarts, before they had left to go to their new living quarters. A conversation with Dumbledore regarding their need to find a place where they could be safe—the Ambassador's Manor was clearly not in any way safe any longer—had resulted in a suggestion that they take up residence at Grimmauld Place. Though the Weasleys and the Grangers were already there, the residence of the family Black was more than large enough to house many more occupants, though it could not be said to be the finest accommodations.

Another thing Harry found out that week was that the Grangers still made their way to their practice every day as, though the Ministry knew their home address, they would not care to have any information about their place of work. Therefore, their surgery was deemed to be safe for the time being. And their house, though it had been damaged by the Death Eaters who had attacked them, still stood, and their belongings had been removed and put into storage until they could return. A Muggle-repelling and notice-me-not charm had been placed to keep anyone in the area from being concerned about the place, and the Grangers had made it known in the neighborhood that they were away for some time staying with relatives. Thus, Harry was comforted in that at least Hermione's parents, though affected by what had happened, had at least been able to return to some semblance of their normal lives.

It was Thursday after lunch when Hermione and Fleur approached him before he was able to make his escape to the classroom. Looking on their well-loved countenances filled him with longing, which he ruthlessly suppressed; it would not do to dwell on it any longer. Naturally, it was Hermione who was the spokesperson if the pair.

"How are you holding up, Harry?"

"I'm fine," Harry deadpanned, attempting a little of the old camaraderie and playfulness between them. Hermione, however, did not appear to be fooled.

"Are you really?" she challenged. "We haven't seen a whole lot of you since Tuesday."

"I'm sorry," Harry said, and he reflected that he truly was. The girls had been nothing but supportive and it was not their fault that he was in no state to be with them. "I've been trying to work everything out in my own mind, you know? I just don't know what to think about all of this."

"It's difficult, Harry," Fleur said as she stepped closer and reached out to clasp one of his hands in her own. "We just want to help you."

Harry sighed and his shoulders slumped. "I know you do, and I appreciate it." He looked into both their eyes in turn. "I just… I _need_ to work this out on my own."

"Harry, there's still a chance we could figure something out," Hermione pressed.

"That would be great, Hermione," Harry said, nodding at her in a short and clipped motion. It was always possible, given how Dumbledore liked to go on about all magic being able to be undone, but Harry could not allow himself to think about that, or he would lose his composure quickly. Such things were not his strength; if the girls, or Dumbledore, or Remus, or even this society he spoke of were able to work out a solution, he would obviously be ecstatic. But such thoughts could not be indulged in now, not if Voldemort were to be defeated.

"Harry, the others have noticed something is wrong," Hermione continued again.

Through narrowed eyes, Harry peered at her. "Who?" he asked flatly.

"Neville, Luna, the twins, Daphne and Ron, for starters. But the entire association could tell that you were off yesterday."

"Did you tell them anything?"

Hermione's face assumed a faintly injured expression. "Of course not. That's your choice as to whether you want to tell them. Besides which, it's not as if I _can_ tell them with the oaths in place. Ron asked that I talk to you and see if you will tell them what's going on."

"Absolutely not," Harry declared. It was bad enough that the girls knew; he did not want to deal with the pitying looks of all his friends.

"Harry, they just want to help," Fleur pressed. She still held his hand in hers and Harry admitted that it was very good to feel her strength and support.

"I know they do, Fleur," Harry said to the blond witch, smiling a little at her quiet tenacity. "But there's not really a lot they can do now, is there?"

"How about the support of good and non-judgmental friends?" Hermione asked.

"That's always helpful," Harry agreed. "But you're forgetting that we have to keep this completely secret. We can't tell them much, and certainly not about what Remus told us, not with the oaths at work."

"Then give them a general idea of what's bothering you," Fleur suggested. "Let them support you. There's nothing that you wouldn't do if any of them asked you—let them return the favor."

It was tempting; for a long minute Harry considered acquiescing to their ideas. But it was not something with which they could truly help and Harry knew it needed to be kept secret. If he was at all honest with himself, he also knew that he could not handle their expressions of pity at knowing his plight. It was just too much for them to ask this of him.

"Not just yet," Harry insisted. "Eventually, they will have to know something, but I think it's best to keep it quiet for now. I'll tell them at some point, but not yet."

Hermione and Fleur exchanged a look and a raised eyebrow, and for a moment Harry found himself angry with them. It was his life which was on the line here—his future which was being cut short. Did they have to bother him about it, pressing him to reveal his thoughts and feelings? Did they have no compassion for the way he was being torn apart by all that was happening to him?

As soon as the thought occurred to him, he consciously forced it away. These two women loved him as he loved them, and to suggest even the hint of such a thing was in no way fair to either of them. He should be grateful for the fact that they loved him enough to care. He would not treat them in such a cavalier manner, no matter how heartsick he was at the situation. They deserved better than that.

"Look," he said, squeezing Fleur's hand, while grasping Hermione's with his free hand, "I understand that you and all the association want to help and I appreciate it. But I cannot let word of this get out now. Later we can discuss it, but for now, please keep it quiet."

"We will," Fleur replied, and then leaned in and brushed her lips across his cheek. "But we want you to stop shutting us out. Can I assume you've spent a lot of time blowing up dueling dummies in the Room of Requirement?"

Harry sheepishly nodded his head.

"Then include us please. If you're going to prepare yourself to face Voldemort, then you will need us to keep Bellatrix off your back. The next time we see that bitch, I want her head on a pike."

Bemused, Harry gazed on the intense determination of his betrothed. Fleur was so kind and gentle, truly a being of love, but that love often caused her to become a lioness intent on protecting her cubs.

"All right," Harry replied. For a moment, he was even able to forget the weight of destiny dragging him down to the depths of despair.

It was, of course, at that moment when Daphne, followed by Astoria and Tracey, chose to approach them.

"My parents' house was attacked yesterday," she said without preamble.

"Are they okay?" Harry asked with a gasp.

Daphne nodded tightly—by the rigidness of her shoulders and her carefully controlled expression, she was having difficulty keeping it together. "My father has been prepared for months. They portkeyed away at the first sign of danger." She then gave a very slight smile. "Mother is upset with father, though. It appears he stayed behind to send a message to Voldemort's Death Eaters and just managed to get away."

"Sounds just like something our Harry would do," Hermione replied with a laugh.

"The thought had occurred to me as well," Daphne said in a dry tone.

"At least they got away," Harry said, ignoring the teasing. He fixed his gaze on Tracey. "What about your family?"

"Nothing yet," was Tracey's short reply. "My parents are prepared for anything, though. And Voldemort probably wants to target those who he considers traitors," her eyes darted toward Daphne, "before the rest of us. There was never any chance of my father supporting him anyway, and he knows that."

"We've got to stop him," Harry growled while clenching his fists in anger. "The bloody bastard will drive the country to its knees if we don't."

"We're all doing what we can," Hermione said soothingly.

"No we're not," Harry disagreed. "Once a week for the club is not good enough any more. We should up the number of meetings."

The others all looked at one another. "If we all work on our homework as soon as classes are over, we could meet almost every night," said Fleur.

"We should do that," Harry said as the ideas and thoughts in his mind firmed up. It was all well and good that he improved, as he would be the one who would ultimately have to face and take down Voldemort. But all the rest of the association needed to be able to know how to take care of themselves too. The words of Alastor Moody, spoken to them at the end of the previous summer, floated through Harry's mind. _"You will never improve if you do not continue to practice." _It now as imperative as ever that they practice, for they would undoubtedly need it at some point or another.

He turned to Hermione and Fleur who were watching him expectantly. "Let's do it. Have you finished planning the improvements to everyone's galleons?"

"We can be finished soon," Hermione replied. "We just need to go over the enchantments a final time to make sure they will do what we need them to."

"Can you have them ready for tonight?"

Hermione glanced at Fleur who nodded. "We can if we need them to be ready."

"Good. Let's pass the word around then—we'll have a meeting tonight and improve the galleons then. Let's get everyone as prepared for Voldemort as we can before he decides to target Hogwarts."

They all nodded in agreement and left, as it was now time to return to the afternoon classes. For Harry, it was still a hopeless situation, but at the very least, he was being given something more to do than sit and stew over what could not be changed. It was enough, he decided. He could live the rest of his life, however long it would end up being, for the others. He would make sure they were safe from the depredations of Voldemort—or at least as safe as he could make them.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Here's another chapter, and only a week in between as I promised. Thanks to everyone who is taking the time to have a glance at my little corner of the sandbox.

2. Pretty much a filler chapter, dealing with the aftermath of the big reveal. More big events to follow.

3. A comment I made to a couple of reviewers over the past week: yes, things look really bad, and yes, Harry has not taken this well. Do you blame him? And really, the story wouldn't really be all that interesting if everything was rainbows and butterflies. We're building up some dramatic tension, and it will get worse before it gets better. We've reached the part of the story where the bottom appears to have fallen out of Harry's world. But it _will_ get better. Trust me. I'm a sucker for a happy ending, and I guarantee you that I will not write 750K words to simply kill Harry off at the end.

4. I may have changed fiendfyre up just a little. If the stuff is really so dangerous that it consumes everything in its path, all it would take was one irresponsible or malevolent wizard, and you'd have a fire which would burn out only when it reached a body of water and couldn't go any further. So I made a slight change. I think it makes sense—you essentially have a fire which rages like crazy and consumes everything, but the magical impetus is exhausted fairly quickly and it burns itself out.

5. Finally, I wanted to take issue with a reviewer (surprise, surprise, the review was anonymous) who chastised me for not knowing that Herpo the Foul was the first one who originally created a horcrux. He also went on to say that though this is fan fiction, canon should still be followed. Since I could not respond directly, I'll respond to the world:

First, was it not obvious that I did know that in _canon_, Herpo _did_ create horcruxes? I had thought that the fact that I mentioned Herpo, and specifically had Remus point out that he was not the original inventor, regardless of what Dumbledore might have believed, would have been a dead giveaway that I was well aware of what JKR had written. And I was.

Second, what's your point? My point would be that the whole reason for fan fiction is to take a story and write a whole new set of circumstances into it which is based (sometimes loosely, sometimes not) on the original premise and how things _could have been_. My take on horcruxes is very different from what JKR wrote, and even what most other fan fiction authors have written. But what really baffles me is why a reviewer would take issue with my changes to _who_ created them, and not make a peep about _how_ they can be created and _what_ can be used? I thought that I had changed all three rather radically.

So here's my question: are you looking to read something where nothing is changed and everything is the same as JKR set up? If you're looking to read a carbon copy of the original, here's a thought: read the original! Not much point in me simply re-posting the books verbatim, when there are a bazillion copies out there. The degree of differentiation from canon that a reader can tolerate is a line which differs for us all I suppose. Personally, I love it when I read something where the author has come up with a completely different take on something—it shows creativity and a care for details, not to mention a lot of effort.

It's an oft repeated refrain on this site, but so true—if you don't like it, find something else to read. With more than 500K HP stories on FFN alone, I'm sure there's something to appeal to us all. I'm well aware that not everyone who reads my stuff will fall down at my feet and worship me as a god (though _a few_ would be nice!) But at the very least, I'd appreciate it if people who criticize would at least make sense. The review in question was nonsensical from the first word to the last.


	59. Chapter 58 – Taking Chances

**A/N: **The aftermath of the horcrux discussion. Hermione and Fleur, along with the more perceptive members of the defense club, worry about Harry. The Greengrasses are attacked by Death Eaters, and retreat from their home. Sirius and Remus agree to do whatever it takes to help Harry. Harry refuses to tell anyone about the horcrux problem, even in a general sense. He decides that it is time to start increasing the number of club meetings to prepare for the coming war.

* * *

**Chapter 58 – Taking Chances**

The Friday after the Battle at the Ministry, as it was now being called, the leaders of Wizarding Britain gathered in the largest conference room in the Ministry building to discuss the situation. In the days after the initial outbreak of violence, the Auror office had worked feverishly to not only protect the population as much as possible, but they had also spent hours investigating the assault on the Ministry building. The strategy session planned for that day would hopefully reveal the manner in which the death Eaters had managed to gain such easy access to the building, and perhaps more importantly, why Voldemort's forces had been able to continue with the attacks, which were increasing in ferocity and frequency, if anything.

When Albus arrived, most of the leaders had already gathered; in addition to the Minister and the newly-appointed Senior Undersecretary, the heads of the DMLE and the Auror Department, as well as several senior members of the Wizengamot. Jean-Sebastian was also present, representing the French, who it was hoped, would become allies in this battle against the Death Eater forces. Though Albus would have perhaps expected that more of the department heads might have been invited, in addition to opening it up to more Wizengamot members, but he understood the need to keep the information to a small group. The fact of the matter was that there was still a rogue department head out there, and until they were able to separate the traitors from loyalists, it was prudent to keep their strategy sessions secret and closed, even to the more senior members of the Ministry.

"Albus," Amelia greeted him as he walked through the door and took his seat. She nodded to Shacklebolt, who Albus assumed would be running the briefing. It appeared that Albus had been the last to arrive.

Shacklebolt stood. "As you all know, the Death Eaters launched a major campaign against Wizarding Britain on Monday, with attacks against multiple targets, most significantly, of course, against the Ministry building itself. Since that time, there have been many more attacks—sometimes as many as ten to twenty per day. Here is the list of the major incidents."

Indicating a stack of parchments which sat in front of each chair around the table, Kingsley instructed each person in the room to open them. "Most of the casualties have been Muggleborns and their families, though they have been lighter per attack than they were in the first war. It appears that the populace is taking a little more responsibility for their safety this time around. The Portkey Office his been inundated with requests for portkeys and the new legislation permitting citizens to create portkeys for the purpose of their own escape have also been helpful. More often than not, those assailed by Death Eaters retreat at the first sign of them."

Lady Longbottom was peering intently at her parchment. "There have been several more attacks within the Ministry building itself," she noted.

"There have," Kingsley confirmed. "After Morgan was killed, Wizengamot members Joshua Franklin and Catherine Harrison were attacked and killed. In all cases, they were hit in out-of-the-way areas, and it appeared like whoever killed them was either known to them, or attacked them from behind, possibly with the use of an invisibility cloak, or the disillusionment spell, as there was no struggle. And after that, Icarus Kershaw was attacked by an unknown assailant, but managed to escape.

"The attacks are obviously an attempt to intimidate the Wizengamot members into at least abstaining in the important matters before the Wizengamot, though I don't know that they have had the effect yet that the Dark Lord intended."

"Eventually they will," Albus said quietly. "The level of panic still has not reached the heights of the first war, for all the intensity of the attacks has risen."

Kingsley nodded. "At the very least, many of the attacks have been foiled by the possession of emergency portkeys. Of course when that happens, the family in question loses everything, as the Death Eaters invariably fire the house after they find it empty."

"The Ministry will provide assistance to those who become destitute," the Minister replied. "But if this continues, our resources will be severely taxed. I don't need to tell you all that we need a quick resolution to this conflict before Voldemort bankrupts us."

The Minister turned again to Shacklebolt. "What about the patrols in Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade and other high risk targets?"

"Thus far there has been little indication of Death Eater activity," Shacklebolt said. "But we would all be foolish if we thought that they were not planning something. The Death Eaters hit Diagon Alley more than two dozen times during the years of the first war. There might not be an attack until the end of summer, however—it is most vulnerable just before Hogwarts when the students are shopping for supplies."

"Speaking of Hogwarts," Amelia said, turning to Albus, "don't you have a Hogsmeade weekend approaching?"

"Tomorrow," Albus confirmed.

"And will it go ahead?" Arthur Weasley asked with a frown. With four children currently attending Hogwarts and of age to go to the village, Arthur was obviously concerned about the safety of his children.

"Is there any indication that Voldemort is planning to strike at the town?" Albus asked, looking at Shacklebolt.

"Nothing concrete," the Director replied. "There has been limited activity in all the major magical areas, but nothing specific to Hogsmeade."

Nodding, Albus turned back to the Minister. "It may be prudent to cancel it, but I have made no decisions yet. As you are all aware, Hogsmeade weekends were routinely cancelled during the first war. Protecting the children in Hogsmeade is uncertain at best."

Arthur nodded somewhat distractedly—he had been a student for part of that time and surely remembered the incidents as well as Albus did himself.

"Cancelling Hogsmeade weekend may very well be prudent," Tiberius Ogden spoke up for the first time, "though I do not doubt the students will be disappointed. I do have a question, though: do we have any indication of how long the Death Eaters will be able to sustain their current rate of activity?"

"Yes, what are our estimates of their strength?" Madam Longbottom spoke up. "Surely it cannot be long—their activities have already far outstripped their capabilities from the last war."

At this, Kingsley's expression became grim, signaling to Albus that something more was at work here, which the man had yet to disclose to those assembled.

"A very good point," Kingsley said, nodding to the two Wizengamot members. "This moves us into perhaps the most important subject for today's meeting.

"We have finished out interrogations of those Death Eaters who were captured during the Ministry battle, and a few who were taken on some of the other raids." Kingsley paused and glanced out over the conference room, his expression as serious as Albus had ever seen. "It appears that Voldemort has been recruiting foreign wizards heavily."

A stunned silence met this declaration, before everyone began speaking—or shouting questions really—at once. This development was certainly unexpected, though now that Albus thought of it, he supposed that he should not be overly surprised. True, Voldemort had limited his recruiting efforts to a certain subset of Pureblood supporters—augmented by a few others, such as Severus, who came to his attention via other means—during the first war. But Voldemort had always been about himself and his prejudices were more about appeasing his followers and assuaging his own vanity than any true belief.

Of course he did despise the Muggle world, mostly due to the fact that his father had been a Muggle and had abandoned him and his mother before his birth. But above all, he was a pragmatic man, who was not above using any tool necessary to bring about his victory. Wizards from other lands might be Pureblood to prevent offending his British followers' sensibilities, but if they were discrete, they would not even need to meet blood requirements. There was not much interaction on a day to day basis with wizards from other countries, Wizarding society being rather insular, which meant that the fanatics in his forces would likely not even know if someone from another land met their preferred level of acceptability as long as they did not broadcast what their true level of blood purity was.

"Where has he recruited from?" Albus asked loudly, making himself heard over the din. His words had the intended impact, as the noise died down in anticipation of Kingsley's reply.

"Among those captured," Kingsley said, looking at a parchment he took from the table in front of him, "there are a German, an Italian, an Austrian, a Brazilian, two Russians, and an American. We cannot be certain, but given the wide disbursement of those areas, it seems obvious that Voldemort has recruited heavily in not only countries, but likely many others as well."

"All in the space of less than a year?" Madam Longbottom demanded.

This time, Robards took up the explanation. "It would seem to defy logic, and in this instance, you are correct, Madam. It seem like this effort has been going on much longer than the past year.

"Although the true extent is not known by any of those who were captured, it appears like Death Eater agents have been active in many countries, probably even prior to the Dark Lord's first defeat. The names Malfoy, Nacnair, and Nott were well known to each of the prisoners, and Dolohov and the Lestranges also came up, though they haven't been active again until this previous February due, of course, to their incarceration in Azkaban."

"So these networks have been operating in the Dark Lord's absence all these years?" Amelia demanded, aghast.

"So it appears."

Shock colored Amelia's face. "How did we remain ignorant of this?"

"We weren't looking for it," Shacklebolt said simply. "Voldemort has always focused his efforts on maintaining a standard in his followers, namely that they were British and Pureblood. The thought of his looking for followers outside the country never really occurred to us."

"It should have," Albus interjected. "He successfully recruited Dolohov, who is Russian, and Karkaroff, who is Bulgarian."

"But they both lived in Britain for some time before they became Death Eaters," Arthur noted.

"And they were likely the ones who were instrumental in setting up his networks in those countries," Kingsley replied. "None of those foreign wizards we captured have been a part of the Dark Lord's forces since his first defeat, so the information is still somewhat incomplete. However, given what we have discovered, my guess would be that Voldemort began recruiting in most of these countries in the late stages of the first war. It may be that he hoped a sudden influx to his forces would topple the government.

"However, when the Dark Lord fell for the first time, it appears like these organizations went to ground, much as the Death Eaters in Britain did the same. They severed all communications with those Death Eaters here, but they continued to recruit on their own. It appears like Voldemort told his followers that he would return, even if he disappeared, and that they should wait for instructions, even if it should take decades. It seems like he was believed."

"And then when he returned the contacts were renewed?" Albus guessed.

"Yes. And then within a few months of his return, they began arriving, though in ones and twos in order to avoid attracting our attention.

"In addition to this," Kingsley continued, "we have credible information which suggests that many of Voldemort's assault teams have been created on ethnic lines so that they may better work together. For example, one Muggleborn family which recently escaped a Death Eater attack reported that their assailants had been speaking in French accents. Another reported some eastern European accent and that, when they spoke in their own language, that they all appeared to understand one another. The same was reported by several people during the Ministry assault."

Amelia gazed at Shacklebolt with some displeasure, though Albus was certain that her anger was due in equal part to the fact that she herself had been director of the DMLE during those years when Voldemort had been disembodied. Likely she was seriously castigating herself for not discovering this earlier.

"What are we dealing with?"

Shaking his head, Shacklebolt replied, "At this point, it is difficult to be certain."

"Estimate."

"Several hundred at the very least. We know for a fact that at least two hundred wands participated on Monday, and we would be foolish to assume that they comprised the entirety of his forces, and that more were not on their way here. Given that fact, I would estimate that he has at least three to four hundred wands under his command, and that it is possible that more are arriving from other lands as we speak."

The room descended into silence while this new information was digested. It was not an insignificant force.

"Now, since there are more than one hundred thousand people in magical Britain, a force of only three hundred may seem paltry," Shacklebolt continued after a momentary pause. "But remember that Voldemort almost brought us to our knees with a force of approximately seventy during the first war. He has now more than quadrupled his strength."

"And remember Grindelwald," Albus interjected. "He was surrounded by a small cadre of loyal supporters, which he built into an army which threatened the very world. Though Voldemort may have more difficulty in doing the same given the fact that he deals with a prosperous country, rather than Germany of the thirties, if he is able to topple us, then he may be able to achieve the domination of British society as a whole through secrecy and stealth. In many respects, his methods may arguably be more dangerous than Grindelwald's."

"The other thing to consider," Robards said, "is that if the Dark Lord has as many as four hundred men under his command, then he outnumbers our entire force of Aurors and Hit Wizards."

That was a sobering observation, and Albus had never thought of the matter in those terms. It appeared that no one else had either, if the consternation around the room was any indication. He would need to speak with Severus and see if the man could get any more accurate indication as to the numbers of Voldemort's followers.

"And that does not even take into account his other forces," Kingsley added. "We know he has recruited among the remaining giants, the werewolves under Fenris Greyback, vampires, and perhaps the worst of all, the Dementors of Azkaban. Just because none of these forces has of yet made any appearance does not mean that he does not have them at his disposal."

"I will contact my counterparts in other countries," the Minister said. "They should have some indication of what is happening in their own borders. Perhaps we can get some idea of how many, and even curtail their operations."

She turned to Shacklebolt. "Voldemort's inner circle has now mostly been executed. Will this have an impact on his operations in other countries?"

Kingsley pursed his lips. "Unknown at this time. If the network was extensive, then they will probably only be hampered by the loss of their regular contacts. I suspect that to be the case, given the fact that they operated autonomously for more than a decade."

"Very well. I believe that the necessity of ending this war as soon as possible has just become all that much more critical." Amelia looked around the room intently. "I will be looking for all of your input on how we might accomplish this."

"Madam Minister," Jean-Sebastian spoke up from where he had been quietly observing the proceedings. "If I may?"

"Please," Madam Bones replied with a nod.

"I believe it may be time to discuss a possible alliance between Britain and France. I am prepared to return and discuss the matter with my Minister."

"Yes, Ambassador," Amelia responded, "I had not forgotten your offer. What do you propose?"

"It will be up to the Minister to determine the specifics. But I've always been of the opinion that the problem of your Dark Lord is not one limited to Britain. It seems like the revelations of the day bear that out.

"The potential for this alliance is one of the reasons why I became involved with Mr. Potter last year. Stopping the Dark Lord now before he completely dominates your society will involve much less loss of life than after, and it will be much easier to do if our Aurors fight alongside yours."

"What will be required?" Madam Bones asked. Albus knew that she had never been opposed to this course of action, though for a time she had thought to handle it without involving other countries. The things they had learned that morning appeared to have done away with whatever objections she had espoused.

"I will need to speak with the Minister, and then he will need to bring it before our National Magic Assembly, as the Minister will not be able to complete this alliance without their approval. Once that approval is obtained, then I may act as a liaison between our two countries so that we can use our combined forces to their best advantage."

Amelia nodded. "Please do so. French assistance would be very welcome."

"If I may, Jean-Sebastian," Albus interjected, "I believe you should keep these discussions as secret as possible. The presence of a French force suddenly appearing in battle would be far more effective than if this alliance were reported in every newspaper in magical Europe."

"Agreed," Jean-Sebastian said with a nod. "We shall have to call a closed session and swear all attendees to secrecy, but I believe that it may be done."

"Then we had best get to it," Amelia responded, while rising to her feet. Events had been set in motion and Albus suspected that the boulder which was even now gaining momentum would not be stopped until it reached the end of the slope. Given the way the Death Eaters were even now attacking them, Albus could not imagine this ending in anything less than either complete victory, or total defeat.

* * *

Tired and irritable, Amelia made her way from the conference room, wondering what else Voldemort would see fit to throw at them. Truly, she could not imagine how Minister Bagnold had dealt with the Ministry in a state of war; after only a week of the experience, Amelia was exhausted. The thought of this continuing on for weeks, months, or even years, filled her with dread. She wondered how she would ever withstand it.

She was aware that part of her trouble was the fact that she had held, until recently, the position of Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and, as such, she still took a healthy level of interest in what they were doing to curb the Death Eater onslaught. Kingsley, and before him Rufus, had been longsuffering in his patience for her nosiness, but she could still detect times when his exasperation got the better of him. She was attempting to curb her interference—Kingsley was actually very good for the post and did the job well—but her old habits sometimes won out.

Another difficulty was the fact that Minister—and director, for that matter—was a job of many hats. There was no standing army in magical society and as such, she was required to oversee their efforts against the Death Eaters. Shacklebolt was not only in charge of their police force, but also had to act as a sort of general in the war, as they had no purely military personnel to assume the role. It made things difficult and overtaxed them all.

Thus, when Albus stopped Amelia immediately after the meeting let out, her first instinct was to snap at him in frustration, which she knew was borne of her exhaustion. Still, she was able to school her features and calm her pique, and listen to him. He was the foremost wizard in their society and possessed the wisdom of a long and productive life, and Amelia was well aware of the fact that had he desired it, he could have been Minister in her place, regardless of the arguments he had made when they had _nominated_ her for the role. For that matter, he could have been Minister in place of Fudge, had he not eschewed the role for his other activities. If he had been, they would undoubtedly be further ahead in the fight against the Death Eaters than they were at present.

"Yes Albus?" Amelia replied to his query, well aware from the slightly admonishing expression on his face that she had not been entirely successful in forcing her pique away. Generations of wizards and witches were intimately familiar with that look, and she, having attended Hogwarts as a Hufflepuff, knew it well.

"I have a bit of information to pass on to you, if you have a moment."

Amelia peered at him with suspicion. He was intelligent, powerful, and experienced, but he was also well-known for protecting his secrets. The question was whether he would be completely forthcoming in what he was about to say, or if he would stick to his typical vague pronouncements and pleas for her to be patient.

Immediately after thinking this, Amelia felt a little guilty over having such thoughts. Dumbledore had been very helpful in not only dispensing his great wisdom, but also advising her whenever she had been in need of another opinion. And his importance in turning back the tide of the Death Eaters that previous Monday could not be underestimated.

"Very well, Albus," she responded, much more graciously than she felt.

Albus waited until the room had cleared before he turned back to her, and Amelia immediately sensed that whatever he wished to impart to her, it was not inconsequential. He often showed the world the persona of a kindly old grandfather, or a gentleman of a bygone era, but none of this was showing in his face on that day. He was the powerful wizard who had defeated Grindelwald, who had stood against Voldemort and matched him spell for spell. They had all attained an air of weariness and hardness, even in the short time since the Death Eater attacks had begun in earnest. In Dumbledore, it almost seemed incongruous, like he was meant for something better than harsh times and heavy cares.

The minute the room was empty, he lazily flicked his wand at the door and it swung gently closed. Then, surprising Amelia, he continued to weave his wand, casting a series of very impressive and powerful wards. Once he had completed his work, Amelia doubted there was an eavesdropping spell in the world which could penetrate his defenses without him being aware of it.

"I apologize if that display appears to be a little over the top," he said as he turned to her. "I assure you, it is completely necessary."

Amelia simply nodded, motioning for him to continue; she knew that he was not speaking idly.

"There is some information of which you must be made aware. I have obtained Mr. Potter's permission to do so, but I require your secrecy in order to be explicit."

"Mr. Potter's permission?" Amelia asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Since this information primarily concerns him, it was necessary to gain his approval."

"Very well, then," Amelia said. "You have my word that I will keep it secret."

"I am afraid that the information is protected by a series of oaths and protections," the Headmaster said. "You will have to swear them before I can tell you anything."

A lump forming in the pit of her stomach—after all, it must be bad if it was protected by such measures—Amelia motioned for him to continue. When she was able to think about it later, she could be nothing but impressed at the way the vows left no room whatsoever for a person to maneuver. Once sworn, the person was incapable of using the information themselves, or passing it on to someone else until they had sworn the same. It was a most impressive set of protections Amelia had ever seen in her life.

But all that paled in comparison with the information Albus proceeded to tell her. He began by informing her of his suspicions of how Voldemort had survived the night he had tried to kill Mr. Potter, then proceeded to explain the mission he had sent Mr. Lupin and Auror Tonks on, and finally taken her through the terrible reality which was so much more horrible than the initial information had suggested. Finally, he told her of his efforts to try to find an answer to the dilemma, while chafing at the demands on his time with the renewed vigor of Voldemort's forces and his duties to three separate positions.

When his explanation was complete, Amelia stared at him in shock. "I can scarcely believe my ears, Albus."

"But it is true," was his simple reply.

With sorrow, Amelia turned her attention to the boy who it seemed could not catch a break in life, and who was now living under what amounted to a death sentence. "How is Harry holding up?"

"About as well as may be expected," Albus replied with a sigh. "While none of us want to contemplate his giving up his life to defeat the Dark Lord, I believe his mind is increasingly focused on just that."

"But is there not something we can do?" Amelia asked. "Perhaps we could somehow capture Voldemort's spirit, or capture _him_ and keep him alive in prison?"

Albus sighed. "Though I would jump at the chance if it existed, you and I both know that there is no way to hold a spirit."

"Maybe the Unspeakables have some way to do so."

"It is possible," Albus said with a shrug, "but I do not think it likely. You may confide in one of them, as long as they swear the oaths, but it must not go any further. In the meantime, I will continue to attempt to find an answer.

"As for keeping him alive in prison, when he dies—as eventually he must—we would be back in the same situation. I do not consider it to be a true option."

Amelia's first instinct had been proven correct—this was as bad as anything she could have imagined. She desired the defeat of Voldemort as much as anyone, but could she, in good conscience, sacrifice the life of a young man, who had barely begun his life, in order to see Voldemort defeated? Logic would suggest that many lives were at stake—not only Harry's. She was sure Harry would agree with her, considering what she imagined his state of mind to be. But it as not so cut and dried as to be nothing more than a numbers game. Harry was a real person and his life was at stake.

Focusing on what was important, Amelia considered the situation. The attacks of Voldemort's forces had been severe and unrelenting, and surely there would be plenty of time after they had managed to regain an even footing to consider such matters. In the meantime, Dumbledore may actually accomplish the near impossible feat of finding a solution to the quandary. She was the Minister; she would focus on what was important to see Voldemort defeated. Dumbledore could take care of the rest.

"Thank you for telling me, Albus," Amelia said, affecting a serenity she did not feel. "The situation with the Dark Lord is worse than I could have imagined, but I can only focus on the fight against the Death Eaters."

"Agreed," Dumbledore replied with a nod. "You will have my assistance of course. I will also try to find a solution to Mr. Potter's problem…"

He trailed off and Amelia was shocked to see what she had never dreamed possible—Albus's voice shook slightly as he ceased speaking and from the corner of his eye, a single tear emerged, rolling down his cheek until it was lost in the vast expanse of his beard. Amelia could not but be moved by the emotions so little displayed, but keenly felt, by this man, and knowing Harry herself, she could not but commiserate.

"I will do all in my power to find the solution to this problem," he stated, though his voice still wavered a little. "I love Mr. Potter like a grandson. I assure you that I will not allow him to go quietly into the night if there is any possible means of preventing it."

"I know you won't," was Amelia's quiet reply. "I wish you luck."

Thanking her, Dumbledore rose to his feet and dispelled the protective magics upon the room. They left it together, each one silent, thinking their own thoughts and, Amelia was certain, considering the young man who was the true victim in all of this. It did not seem to matter what happened, but fate seemed intent upon ensuring Harry's misery. The young man seemed to be unable to catch a break.

So caught up was Amelia in her thoughts that when it happened, she had no notion of what was occurring until after it was over. Her companion made a sudden movement and his wand flashed in his hand. In front of her, a wooden plank appeared out of thin air, only to explode in a vicious hail of wood shards an instant later, which were quickly transfigured into flowers before they could do any damage to either of them.

Surprised by the sudden action, Amelia lost her balance and went down in a heap, looking up to see Dumbledore with a blazing mask of fury covering his countenance. He held his wand to his throat, intoning, "_Sonorus!_" before he then said, "_Aurors, to the main conference room immediately!_" He then cancelled the charm and held his wand in front of him, looking this way and that for any signs of danger.

"What just happened, Albus?" Amelia asked, feeling a little dazed.

"I believe you just survived the second attempt on your life since taking office," was his short reply. "I only happened to see the killing curse out of the corner of my eye, and was able to put up a barrier in time. If I had not we would be looking for a new Minister about now."

Swearing to herself, Amelia heaved herself to her feet, her wand now in hand as she joined him peering about with suspicion. It was at that moment that the approaching footsteps of several Aurors, as well as Director Shacklebolt, sounded on the tile floors.

"What happened?" Kingsley asked as he hurried up.

"Someone just tried to kill the Minister," Albus replied with a scowl. "He ran off in that direction," he continued, pointing with his wand.

Amelia was joined in her swearing by her director, and he immediately sent some Aurors off to seal the building and pursue the assailant. At his indication, several more of the accompanying Aurors formed up around Amelia, who had now begun to recover, and they made their way back toward her office, the hawk eyes of the escort scanning the area for any hint of danger. Once they had reached the dubious safety of her office, Amelia sighed with relief.

"Madam Minister," Shacklebolt said as soon as they had arrived, "I believe it is now time to assign some Aurors to protect you."

Scowling, Amelia shook her head. They had already discussed this before. They simply did not have the manpower to assign her guards. But before she was able to speak, Shacklebolt was making his case.

"I know we are short of manpower, but this is critical. If the Death Eaters manage to kill you, we could be facing the collapse of the Ministry. For the good of us all, you _must_ be protected!"

"The Director is right," Dumbledore rumbled. "You are the leader of Wizarding Britain, and it is not a figurehead position. Frankly I am surprised you are not already protected."

"Are you ready to sweep the Ministry for Death Eaters?" Amelia asked, looking expectantly at Shacklebolt. "If we can remove all his sympathizers from the equation, I should be adequately secure."

"The Auror corps will be vetted tonight," Shacklebolt responded. "But that does not make the building safe. It does not cover the possibility of the Imperius, or even perhaps Polyjuice."

"Polyjuice does not cover the dark mark."

"I am well aware of that. The point is that though we will be closing off the building and inspecting everyone who comes in, there is still the possibility that a Death Eater could breach our defenses, and you are well aware of the fact that it is almost impossible to defend against the Imperius."

"Madam Minister," Dumbledore broke in, "Director Shacklebolt is correct. You must be protected more adequately than you have been until now." He smiled at her with those damn twinkling eyes and for a moment, Amelia wanted to slap the expression from his face. "Do you wish for me to convene a session of the Wizengamot and legislate your protection?"

Of course Amelia wished for no such thing. In her pique, however, she knew that she was not exactly thinking rationally. They were both right, much as she wished to dispute it—the Ministry had proven to be unsafe.

At that moment, an Auror walked up and knocked on the ruined remains of the office's wall. "Director, Minister," the man said. "The Head Auror reports that there is no sign of the assailant. Should we conduct an inspection of all wands in the building?"

Shacklebolt shook his head. "There is no point. My guess is that he cleared his wand immediately, and even if he didn't, he'll do it once he realizes that we are searching the building. Tell Robards to stand down the search."

The man bowed and left and Shacklebolt turned back to Amelia. "I assume you mean to catch him through your sweep?"

"That's the best way," Shacklebolt replied with a tight nod. "We'll do the Auror corps starting this afternoon, then the Department Heads, and the rest of the staff after. The check points in the Atrium will be in place by Monday and all personnel entering the Ministry will be required to use that entrance and submit to a search. The building will be as protected as we are able to make it."

"Good," Amelia stated. "Then I suggest we return to our sundry tasks."

As the two men walked from the office, Amelia sank wearily down on her chair, thinking to herself that it could not become much worse. Then again perhaps she should not say that—bad situations had a disturbing tendency to exceed expectations.

* * *

"Jean-Sebastian. I have been expecting to see you since Apolline left."

Nodding to the Minister's greeting, Jean-Sebastian stepped into the office and, after shaking his old friend's hand with a firmness that bespoke their long association with one another.

"How is Apolline?" Alain asked, with only a trace of a smirk.

Jean-Sebastian grimaced. "She is well as ever. The accommodations are not exactly to our liking, but we are making do." At his friend's curious expression, Jean-Sebastian felt the need to explain. "We are staying at Black Manor which is being used as a headquarters for Dumbledore's Order. Since they're historically a dark family, you can well imagine the state of the place and some of the things it contains. In addition, it is the home of a foul little house-elf who mutters and complains about intruders in his mistress's home, not to mention a crazy portrait of Sirius Black's mother who screams every time anyone makes even the slightest noise."

The Minister chuckled at Jean-Sebastian's droll portrayal of the accommodations. "Remember, you made the choice to go to England, my friend."

"And I still firmly believe that it was the right one," Jean-Sebastian replied quietly.

All levity forgotten, Alain peered at him. "How is the situation?"

"Not yet desperate, but not good either. You know of Monday's events, so I will tell you what you have not already heard."

Starting from the attack on the Ministry building, Jean-Sebastian began to explain the events of the last few days, including what had happened during the attack, to his removal to Hogwarts, Dumbledore's actions, as well as the meeting they had had at the Ministry that very morning. Of course he did not touch on the society, horcruxes, or anything to do with what Harry was now facing. Not only did he agree with Dumbledore that it was really Harry's decision about who to tell, but he also realized that the information should stay in as small a circle as possible. When he had completed his narration, Alain sat back and regarded his friend.

"I have already begun to draw up plans to sweep our members for Death Eaters," Alain finally said. "I'm sure Apolline told you, but since Alphonse was a Death Eater, we would be shortsighted if we didn't consider the possibility that there are other Death Eaters in our ranks. With this new revelation of your Dark Lord's recruiting in other countries, I suspect that he already has plans in the works for what he will do once he brings Britain to its knees."

Jean-Sebastian nodded with a grim smile. "We see alike. But I am curious—the British Ministry has seen no sign of Alphonse Richard since the attack. Has he surfaced here in France?"

The Minister grimaced. "Yes, but not in the manner you are thinking. His body was dumped at the entrance to the Auror department. He had been flayed alive, Jean-Sebastian. It was not a pretty sight."

"I would try to summon some measure of sympathy," Jean-Sebastian replied, his tone hard as the stone floor, "if he had not tried to hand my wife and youngest daughter to Voldemort."

"Understandable," Alain murmured.

"It's what one can expect if he fails the Dark Lord. It's the risk they take for displeasing him."

Alain nodded in agreement, before he peered at Jean-Sebastian intently. "I assume, then, that you are here to propose a possible alliance?"

Allowing a ghost of a smile to come over his visage, Jean-Sebastian reflected that it was good that they had such a close rapport between them. He had known the Minister since they were mere boys at Beauxbatons, and it made it easier to deal with situations such as this. They often completed each other's ideas, sometimes embellishing upon them and improving them, so close were they in character and personality. He was a good man—France was lucky to have him as Minister.

"I believe we must throw our lot in with the British, Alain," Jean-Sebastian stated, confident that his friend would understand the need. "The more dangerous Voldemort becomes, and the more pressure he puts on the British Ministry, the closer he comes to victory. If he does gain control over magical Britain, it puts us is a much less secure position. We can't afford to allow him to do so."

Alain watched him for several moments before he replied. "I will have to go before the Assembly."

"Then we had best make preparations to do it."

"Very well. I assume that you will address the Assembly as well?"

Jean-Sebastian grimaced. He had made his career as a politician, but addressing a large body was not something he enjoyed doing. He was not the orator—it was one of the reasons why Alain was the Minister, while Jean-Sebastian had never aspired to the post. Regardless, he knew it was required in this instance, so he gave his friend a tight nod.

"We should keep it secret, though," Jean-Sebastian stated.

It was obvious that Alain immediately understood why. "Of course. I will set it up and let you know when your presence will be required."

They spoke for a few more moments before Jean-Sebastian left to return to England. The moment for which he had planned and had originally become involved with the struggle against Voldemort had almost arrived. The French were about to go to war.

* * *

Harry had a bad feeling.

Or perhaps, it was more correct to say that the bad feeling was worse now than it had been in the previous few days. Or more than that, that Harry's feeling of trepidation was now focused on something more than Voldemort's damnable horcrux residing in his head which, though he knew was too minute in quantity to affect him, as Remus had told him, still seemed to sap his strength and beat his feelings down until he was convinced of his imminent mortality. It was silly and childish to a certain extent, but knowing as he did now of what a horcrux truly consisted, Harry could not help but feel its evil weight upon him like a canker on his soul. But melodrama truly did not suit him, he thought, and he rolled his eyes at his own fanciful thoughts.

Regardless, Harry had a bad feeling. And the focus of this bad feeling was, of course, the aforementioned Dark Lord.

Now, it was not to be wondered at that Harry espoused such feelings. He doubted there were many right-thinking people in the entire country who did not have a bad feeling about the monster masquerading as a mere man. The attacks had not abated, and the country was now under the grip of a miasma which was almost palpable, even in such a protected location as Hogwarts. Harry had heard whispers and rumors running rampant throughout the school, students speaking of family members who were not so well protected, others who had actually had family members attacked, and those who knew others who might potentially be at risk. Thus far, as far as Harry was aware, no one at the school had as yet lost anyone close to them to an attack, but he also knew it was merely a matter of time. It was inevitable, given the Death Eaters' high rate of activity.

But Harry's feelings were a little more subtle than just a fear for his family—if he had any—being targeted. He had been unable to truly get a good night's sleep since the revelation about the true nature of Horcruxes, stuck as he was, worrying the situation over in his mind. The days of less than adequate sleep had begun to make him irritable and snappish, and perhaps more importantly, it had also begun to break down his mental defenses. Nothing as of yet had truly penetrated his defenses, but in the middle of the night and during the times in which he had actually managed to drop off for a while, he had begun to hear snippets, teasing little excerpts of conversations, or musing thoughts.

It all added up to one thing: Voldemort was up to something. And whatever that something was, it was something which had the potential to hurt many people.

Unfortunately, when he brought this up with his friends, there seemed to be a worried fatalism which had settled over the group.

"I'm sure it's just what's been going on lately," Hermione told him, though she had a concerned look on her face, which told him that she was not trying to be patronizing. It was a good thing, as his state of mind lately would not have allowed him to overlook such a response with any sense of acceptance.

"I'm telling you, Hermione, he's up to something," Harry insisted.

"What do you mean to do about it?" Ron asked. "It's not like we can really do anything. Let the Ministry handle it."

That answer did not sit well with Harry, but he made no further comment. Ron was right after a fashion; the Ministry was doing whatever they could to ensure the safety of its citizens. And Harry was, after all, still just a student.

But there was something that Harry could do, and though he had been told never to do it before, once the idea began to take hold, the more it sounded like the perfect opportunity to get some intelligence. In the past, his visions of Voldemort had always come in the middle of the night during his sleep, or at those times when he was tired and his defenses were the lowest. He had never tried to open the connection to Voldemort consciously, but he knew it must be possible. The problem was, he was not exactly certain about how to go about it.

Harry knew what his girls or the Headmaster would say. In fact, he could probably recite verbatim exactly how they would berate him for foolishness should they ever learn of it. And learn of it they would, for if he found out exactly what it was and told the Headmaster, he would surely wonder where Harry had come across the information, if he did not figure it out the moment Harry opened his mouth.

But Harry had come to have a bit of a philosophical bent to his frame of mind the past few days; knowing that you were destined to die would do that to a person. Simply put, Harry decided that if he was not to live, then it was time to start taking a few chances. Hiding behind Hogwarts' wards would not see the Dark Lord defeated. Only bold, decisive action would accomplish that, and using every tool at their disposal was only prudent. And he had promised himself that he would see Voldemort defeated. He would not leave Fleur and Hermione to a world in which Voldemort was still a threat against them. He loved them too much to fail them.

Thus it was not without a sense of trepidation that Harry sat on the sofa in the Gryffindor common room, trying to build up the courage to actually try to seek out the mind of his greatest nemesis with conscious thought. He did not fear for himself—he feared more for what the Dark Lord could do if he ever discovered the existence of the link. Still, he was a Gryffindor, was he not? And defying his fear was what a Gryffindor should do.

Glancing around surreptitiously—and noting that none of his friends were paying him any attention—Harry closed his eyes and concentrated on his Occlumency defenses, hoping that whoever saw him would think that he had just drifted off. His friends had seen enough of him in the past few days to know that he was not well rested. It should not be difficult for them to believe that it had caught up to him.

He immediately found his center as Fleur had taught him, and began to push himself beyond his body. Of course, nothing happened. Trying again, he attempted to cast his consciousness beyond the confines of his physical form, but try as he might, nothing occurred. What he was trying to do was far beyond the boundaries of anything he had attempted before, and he did not have any idea what it was that he should do.

Pulling back into himself, Harry considered the situation, thinking about the Occlumency lessons his betrothed had taught to him. Occlumency was the art of hiding yourself and your thoughts from an invader, of keeping oneself secret from one who wished to do mental harm. Its opposite was, of course, Legilimency, and though Harry had no practical knowledge of the art, he knew that it was the act of projecting oneself into the mind of another in order to read their thoughts. The Legilimencer could enter the mind of one unskilled in Occlumency with ease, but it would be much more difficult to do so with one who was trained to defend himself.

Theoretically, since he and Voldemort were not in the room, it should not be possible for them to read each other's mind. Dumbledore had theorized that it was somehow a byproduct of the horcrux that his link between them existed. But since he did not have any measure of the skill and was not looking Voldemort in the eye, the traditional method of Legilimency was not possible. Instead, he would need to follow the link.

And that was when he saw it. Harry truly did not know how to describe it, other than to say that it looked almost like a thin, opaque line emerging from his own consciousness, going out into the ether. Latching onto this line, Harry felt himself being carried far away. And just as suddenly, he was in Voldemort's mind.

* * *

_Expectation. Anticipation. A sense of malevolent glee._

_ These are the first feelings, the initial indication Harry has that he has successfully crossed the gap between himself and the Dark Lord. But this time, it is different. He is conscious of the fact that he is an outsider, looking in on the thoughts and feelings of another, so different from the other times he found himself in Voldemort's mind. Perhaps it is because he initiated the contact himself. Harry does not know. He only knows that he has been successful._

_ The room in which Voldemort sits is long and large, yet it does not have the splendor one would expect in a room which is obviously intended to be a throne room. Maybe he simply does not care._

_ It is of no importance. Concentrate! Harry is here for a purpose._

_ With his fledgling senses, Harry reaches out, attempting to read something of Voldemort's thoughts. Is this how one does Legilimency? No. He is already _inside_. Legilimency is the act of invasion. The invasion is already a success._

_ It is a curious thing, he decides, as he roves this way and that, attempting to read the thoughts of the Dark Lord. He is already where he needs to be, but try as he might, the Dark Lord's thoughts remain stubbornly hidden from him. Maybe he needs to do something else? Harry cannot be certain. He only knows that he would like to find something, so that this little adventure will not be in vain._

_ "…report on your progress."_

_ Startled, Harry drifts out of the Dark Lord's mind, hovering outside, much the same as he did when he saw Voldemort at the Ministry. There are men in the room, as well as one woman—Bellatrix Lestrange—and Harry had not realized in his focus on Voldemort that there were others present as well. Maybe he can learn a little more from the conversation._

_ "The giants have been transported and are waiting nearby, My Lord," a man Harry does not recognize says. "They are difficult to control, but so far we have been able to keep them hidden."_

_ Voldemort nods tightly. "That is to be expected. Instruct their handlers to take care; they will only need to be hidden for another few hours, but it is critical that they are not discovered.."_

_ Turning to another man, Voldemort asks, "What of the werewolf packs?"_

_ "They have all received their instructions, My Lord," the man replies. "They are… eager to begin."_

_ "As they always are," Voldemort says showing his teeth in what might pass for a feral grin. "Greyback prefers them that way."_

_ Looking around at the gathered men, Voldemort fixes them with a firm stare. "You all understand the plan, correct?" he asks pointedly._

_ A murmur of assent meets his question. "Good. Remember, the werewolves and giants are to lead the attack, but should be kept in check until our objectives have been achieved. Once the primary targets have all been secured, they may be unleashed. I do not care if there is a single stone left standing on top of another after they are done; in fact, it is a greater object lesson if there is not."_

_ Snickers sound throughout the room, leading Harry to reflect that Voldemort's replacement inner circle—if indeed that's what these men are—were a cruder lot than the outwardly polished Malfoy and his cronies. Malfoy would have considered such a response to be beneath his dignity and an affront to his outwardly sophisticated demeanor._

_ "Now, the targets should all be in the village by noon. The attack will commence immediately after." Voldemort pauses and peers about the room. "Get me some hostages. The Ministry will be forced to capitulate if we have their children in our grasp."_

* * *

Gasping, Harry felt his consciousness rush back into his body, while the sibilant hiss of Voldemort's voice echoed in his mind.

"Hogsmeade!" he exclaimed, and he jumped up and ran from the common room, heedless of the scene he was making as he did so.

The information must be passed on to the Headmaster, regardless of what his reaction would be to what Harry had done. In fact, within the confines of his mind, Harry felt a feeling of justification well up, as well as a feeling of pride that he had been able to discover the nature of what had been bothering him. This information could potentially save lives. In fact, if he could continue to spy on Voldemort, he could be of more use to the Ministry defenses than Snape who, in Harry's view, rarely imparted information of any value.

A few moments later he had reached the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office and, after explaining why he had come, the stone statue moved to the side allowing Harry to ascend the steps. Unfortunately, it was also when the girls caught up to him.

"What's going on, Harry?" Fleur asked as she jogged up.

Inwardly groaning—he knew Fleur and Hermione would like his spying on Voldemort as little as Dumbledore would himself—he shook his head and headed up the stairs, both girls close on his heels.

At the top of the stairs, Harry quickly moved to the door to the office and burst through it, blurting out, "Voldemort is planning to attack Hogsmeade!"

Surprised, Dumbledore peered at him over the top of his half-moon glasses. "What, Harry?"

Drawing on his patience and trying to avoid simply blurting everything out, Harry forced himself to calmly and rationally explain what he had seen. He left out the fact that he had consciously initiated the connection with Voldemort, knowing that Dumbledore would not be happy with him, but he explained everything else. When he finished, Dumbledore was peering at him with some speculation.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said with a sigh. "You didn't."

Grimacing, Harry shot a look at his best friend, but she merely glared back at him. It was, of course, too much to ask that Dumbledore would be too immersed in thoughts of what Harry had just told him to be paying attention to Hermione's words.

"Did what?" he asked mildly, though Harry thought that the man already knew what Hermione was referring to.

"He was trying to tell us that he thought Voldemort was up to something," Fleur spoke up, directing a hard look at Harry herself.

"So you were worried and you opened up the connection between you," Dumbledore finished. His expression was positively annoyed by this point.

"I found out an important attack is set to take place tomorrow!" Harry snapped in reply, intent upon defending himself. "It's more than Snape gives us."

"Whether that is true or not," Dumbledore replied, "it is a very foolish and reckless thing to do. I have told you before, Harry—Voldemort is a master Legilimens. If he ever discovers the link between you, he will press you and goad you and give you no respite. He can make you wish you were dead. This is not a game, Harry. I would ask you to please never do this again."

Though he had no intention whatsoever of abiding by the stricture, Harry nodded tightly. Dumbledore watched him for several more moments—likely not believing that Harry was being completely honest in his agreement—before he rose from his chair.

"Regardless, thank you for bringing this to me. I will inform the Minister."

Accepting it for the dismissal it was, Harry removed himself from the office in the company of his female friends. Unfortunately, they would not leave him alone with his thoughts, berating him all the way back to Gryffindor tower for his foolishness.

By the time they had gotten close to their destination, Harry had had enough.

"Stop it already!" he commanded, turning on them with fury. "I understand you're not happy with me, but it's already done. Leave it alone!"

The girls shared a look between them and approached him with much more conciliatory expressions on their faces.

"Harry," Hermione stated softly, "we're just worried about you. Please don't be reckless."

Harry glared at them stonily. "You don't seem to remember that this stupid horcrux is a death sentence. If I'm not fated to live, why shouldn't I take some chances? We've got to defeat him, and if that's what it takes, I'll do it. Now leave off!"

Then, ignoring their shock, he turned and stalked away from them. He would do whatever it took to make sure they were safe. Of that he was determined!

* * *

**A/N:**

1. One more chapter and we hit the 3/4 mark on this story. Thanks again to everyone who continues to read and comment.

2. A quick comment about something that came up in the reviews several times in this past week. Some readers suggested a medical solution to Harry's problem-that they kill him medically, and then revive him. Sorry, folks, but that won't work. The horcrux is integrated with Harry's soul, and as such, it's not going anywhere until Harry's soul leaves. It's all or nothing. There will be a solution (of course) but it will be a magical solution.

3. You're starting to see Harry's descent here, though we're just getting into the post-horcrux revelation chapters. For those who will understand the reference, I've tried to pattern him after Rand al'Thor of the Wheel of Time series, after Rand learns that he's the Dragon Reborn. That should give you some indication of how Harry will be acting for the next several chapters.

4. Finally, Voldemort has been building his forces. Though JKR never really went into it, I cannot imagine that had he ultimately won, he would have been content to simply rule Britain. I think Voldemort has _much_ grander ambitions, and this chapter is a glimpse into what they might be.


	60. Chapter 59 – To Spring a Trap

**Previously: **The leaders of Wizarding Britain meet, and Shacklebolt tells them that Voldemort has been recruiting in other countries. He estimates that there are several hundred Death Eaters. Dumbledore tells Amelia about Harry being a Horcrux, promising to find an answer to the dilemma. When they leave the conference room, an unknown assailant attempts to assassinate Amelia. Jean-Sebastian speaks with the French Minister about involving France in the conflict. Harry opens the connection between himself and Voldemort, learning of a planned attack on Hogsmeade. He rushes to tell Dumbledore, and pushes back when Fleur and Hermione chastise him for being reckless.

* * *

**Chapter 59 – To Spring a Trap**

Like the proverbial calm in the eye of the storm, number twelve Grimmauld Place stood untouched by the onslaught of the Death Eaters. What it was not, however, was a bastion of hope. The decrepit and crumbling manor of the Blacks was inspiring to some, but hope was something it could never inspire.

The fact that it was hidden by a Fidelius was, of course, the reason why it was as of yet untouched, though it would never have been a high priority target, even if Voldemort's forces had been able to attack it. The Blacks were, after all, known for centuries to be a family bent towards darkness and as such, Voldemort might have considered the place to be a bastion of _his_ side in the conflict. But the fact that it existed at all had quite escaped his memory, and the fact that it was being used as the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, had never become known to him.

That the Order still utilized the place was, of course, because it was still secure. There were many who moved their way through the old building's halls, staying for a night here and there, or attending Order meetings which were still held on a regular basis. As the Death Eater attacks became more severe and frequent, the traffic through Grimmauld actually became greater—the fighters needed a place to rest which was safe from attack and, regardless of the fact that the décor was depressing and the place was dreary and almost collapsing in upon itself, it did provide a safe haven for those who required it. What it did not serve as was a permanent haven for _most_ those who had been displaced from their homes; Dumbledore had set up other, more hospitable locations for that exact function.

There were actually six long-term residents of the old house, and they were there because they had all been dispossessed from their former homes, and not from any desire to live in the crumbling old manor. And if a trio of couples could be referred to be so, they were also the typical _odd couple_ in a way, because they were so unlike one another.

The couples in question were, of course, the Delacours, the Grangers and the Weasleys, and a more disparate trio of couples would be difficult to find. The Grangers were, of course, Muggle, and were only involved because of the fact that their daughter was a witch and, perhaps more importantly, a very close friend of one Harry Potter. Of the other two couples, both were magical—the Delacours were influential and wealthy, not to mention French, while the Weasleys were a family of humble origins and humble means—not to mention until recently, far from influential—and just about as English as one could be. Jean-Sebastian was rational and controlled, and single-minded when it came to accomplishing his goals. Arthur Weasley was, by contrast, laid-back, eccentric, and a peacemaker, whereas William Granger was jovial and playful, though he could be truly intimidating with his height, and rather impressive physique. And while Apolline was tall and willowy, beautiful, but intelligent and determined, Elizabeth Granger was much more modest in looks, though she certainly could not be called plain, and she was much more studious and introverted than the other two women, much like her only child. By contrast, Molly Weasley was somewhat short and dumpy, not considered to be attractive (though she had been buxom and curvy as a young girl), and though she was intelligent herself, she tended to be somewhat overprotective of her children and an affectionate, mothering sort.

One would have thought that the three couples would have difficulty coexisting together—though perhaps it would be more correct to state that Molly Weasley would have difficulty getting along with the Delacours, as Arthur could pretty much get along with anyone—and maybe under other circumstances, one would have been correct, especially the difficulty which had existed recently because of Molly's disappointment in the matter of a certain betrothal. However, they were united in one common goal which, at the present moment, trumped all other considerations: namely the defeat of the man styling himself as Lord Voldemort, and the protection of their families. That both couples claimed a certain Harry Potter as a member of their respective families—and the Grangers, though they did not truly know Harry well yet, were well on their way to considering him a fine young man—was another tie binding them together.

As he sat at the dinner table the evening of that Friday after having returned from his meeting with the French Minister, Jean-Sebastian considered his dinner companions and reflected that opposing Voldemort did make for strange bedfellows. The Weasleys were, perhaps, not the type of people with whom he would have chosen to associate, but in living in the same house with them, he had found that they were good people, with their hearts firmly in the right place. The Grangers, by virtue of the time they had spent together the previous year and during the Christmas holidays, were quickly becoming very good friends.

Setting aside thoughts of the Grangers for the moment, Jean-Sebastian focused his thoughts on the other magical couple. Mr. Weasley was certainly an oddity. His love for all things Muggle was amusing, but to Jean-Sebastian it was also somewhat confusing. Jean-Sebastian himself knew much more about the Muggle world and it was not impossible for Arthur to learn the way Jean-Sebastian had, and yet he was content to tinker and play with his trinkets without becoming too immersed in the world in which he, after all, professed an interest. It was almost like it was a hobby, the truth of which he did not particularly—or maybe even consciously—wish to learn, as it would ruin the wonder of it if it were exposed to him in truth.

The fact that Mr. Weasley was not an intellectual lightweight as Jean-Sebastian had sometimes thought was now obvious as well. He had been chosen specifically by Minister Bones to be her lieutenant, and thus far, though he had only been in the position for a short time, he appeared to be filling the position with competence and even a little flair. His opinions were sober and well thought out, his actions well-judged and prudent, and he was able to advise the Minister and bring balance to her sometimes fiery personality with his own brand of soberness.

As for Mrs. Weasley, Jean-Sebastian could not help but continue to be annoyed by her over-protectiveness and her propensity to fret for her children, but she certainly was not a bad sort. The displeasure she had felt over Harry's betrothal to Fleur had waned to a sort of wistful acceptance. And being fair, Jean-Sebastian could understand why she would have wanted Harry for a son, even discounting her daughter's obvious infatuation. Harry was a good boy and Jean-Sebastian suspected that he would become an exceptional father and husband.

It was certainly an added bonus that Mrs. Weasley's cooking was extremely tasty—and they were lucky that she was willing and able to perform the role. Apolline, though talented and competent in many respects, had not had to cook in many years—if ever—due to the fact that their house-elves had always filled that role, and Jean-Sebastian knew that he himself had no talent in that area, even if he had the time to devote to it. And the house-elf who lived at the manor was essentially useless—the elf barely went through the motions of cleaning, let alone cooking. Jean-Sebastian was not certain he would be able to bring himself to eat anything the elf prepared, anyway—he would not put it past the little bugger to try to poison them.

The conversation at the dinner table was somewhat desultory. The three men—and Elizabeth Granger—were tired from their long days and though Apolline and Elizabeth were rapidly becoming friends, the three women did not really have much in common, and that alone made conversation difficult. Mr. Weasley shared some of his doings in the Ministry, while Jean-Sebastian assured him that he had spoken with the French Minister and that he expected help would be on the way shortly. The Grangers had little to say about the day they had spent at their practice, as they were aware that the Weasleys would have found most of what they had to say to be somewhat incomprehensible.

"Have you heard from Harry?" Mrs. Weasley asked after there had been silence for several moments.

"He is well, according to Fleur," Jean-Sebastian replied.

It was prudent to be careful when discussing that particular young man, as Jean-Sebastian was aware that neither the Weasleys nor the Grangers were privy to the information about Horcruxes. Privately, Jean-Sebastian suspected that Harry was having difficulty coming to terms with the new information brought by Lupin, unsurprising to say the least. Jean-Sebastian would have removed that burden from his shoulders if he could, but his talents did not lie in the area of spellcrafting or removing portions of foreign souls from living beings. Hopefully Dumbledore would be able to come up with something.

"He's a good boy," Mrs. Weasley was saying. "It is such a shame that he has had to deal with all he has in his life."

"It is," Jean-Sebastian murmured. "But he has good friends to help him through his troubles. He will be well."

"Hermione has told us something of what Harry's status is in your world," William Granger spoke up. "If you ask me, it seems a little silly that so much hope is put on the shoulders of a fifteen year-old."

"No one said that the magical world always makes sense," Apolline responded.

Arthur grunted. "I think I've seen more of that since Minister Bones saddled me with this position than I ever thought possible."

Jean-Sebastian shared an amused look with his wife while William chuckled. "Far be it for me to disagree," he murmured.

"There seems to be good and bad in both worlds," Elizabeth opined. "God knows there are some things in our world which make me shake my head."

"You're right," Jean-Sebastian said with a shrug. "You take the good with the bad."

Mrs. Weasley, who had been silent during the exchange, dropped her gaze to her plate. When she finally spoke, it was in a quiet and introspective voice. "I hope you understand, Ambassador, we want Harry to be happy. He's been such a good friend to Ron all these years, and I know the twins think the world of him. As for Ginny… Ginny looks up to him. He's a good leader, and a good friend to _all_ _of them_."

Jean-Sebastian exchanged a look with Apolline. "We do understand, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you for taking care of Harry to your family for being so good to him. I know that he considers you to be just like family himself."

Beaming, Mrs. Weasley turned back to her plate, though she did not say another word. It appeared that a meeting of minds had occurred.

"This truly is excellent," Jean-Sebastian said after a few moments, taking another bite of his meal.

* * *

Tonks stepped into the conference room in the Auror office, a feeling of anticipation settling into her very soul. Momentous events seemed to be on the horizon and she was keenly anticipating being involved.

This is why she had joined the Auror force—for the chance to make a difference. With Voldemort moving out into the open and the number and severity of the attacks ratcheting up as a consequence, there would be more than enough action to keep everyone busy. More than anyone would want.

A part of her longed to be with Remus, for she had grown extremely fond of the quiet man during the time they had spent in Egypt, but she knew that he was still struggling with the idea of actually having a relationship and the effects his lycanthropy would have on any association with a woman. He was a good man, but his condition formed sort of a blind spot and induced him to believe that he was not worthy of having such happiness in his life. Tonks knew that she had done all she could—it was up to him to work his way through his issues and make a decision. She would give him that time.

In the conference room were all the usual suspects: Kingsley Shacklebolt as the director, Robards the Head Auror, Moody, ever irascible, but stolid and dependable, as well as a few others Tonks knew were trusted and considered to be bright lights within the force. In fact, she was well aware of the fact that she was by far the most junior of those gathered. It puzzled her—why should she be involved in a strategy session which seemed to involve all the best and brightest?

But the summons had been clear; she was to present herself to the conference room, though the reason had not been given. She was soon to find out.

Kingsley nodded at her as she entered, and with a flick of his wrist, he closed the door and brought up some privacy wards.

"Thank you all for coming," he began without preamble. "This is going to be a difficult night, and I hope that I can count on all of you to uphold your positions. We have credible intelligence that there is a major attack scheduled for tomorrow, and we will need to have our forces up to snuff and fully on our side to be able to repel it."

Murmurs broke out at this statement and Kingsley nodded grimly. "Yes, you heard me correctly—we suspect Voldemort has moles in the department. As you are all aware, several Wizengamot members have been targeted and killed, and an attempt was made on the Minister this very morning. We don't know if those attacks were carried out by rogue Aurors, but it seems obvious that we must ensure our police force is on our side before we concentrate on other elements of the Ministry.

"Now," he said, in turn meeting the eyes of everyone in the room, "we need to vet the entire Auror and Hit Wizard force. Everyone in the room has been chosen specifically because I _know_ you are all above suspicion. In order to be doubly certain, you will all bare your left arms, and be required to swear an oath on your magic to prove that you are not a Voldemort supporter."

Quietly and without further words, everyone in the room pulled the sleeves covering their left arms up, exposing clear and unblemished skin to the eyes of everyone in the room. Kingsley then passed around a piece of parchment, and in turn they all swore the oath on their magic, each person glowing briefly once the oath had taken hold. In all, a dozen members of the department had now been proven to be loyal.

"Very well," Kingsley continued once the oaths had all been sworn. "Barnes and Jackson, I want you to guard the entrance to the department—once they enter, no one is allowed to leave. All on duty Aurors and Hit Wizards will be brought into the room in small groups, where they will be required to follow the same procedure. Then as the night shift arrives, they will do the same. They will replace those on duty outside the building, who will again be forced to swear when they return. Finally, once this has all been done, all off duty personnel will be called in. By that time we should have enough wands confirmed to be loyal that we will not need to keep the secrecy up—once they arrive, they will have no choice but to comply.

"The portkey wards in the building have been reset by the Minister to deny all portkeys, so there will be no escape by that route. Keep it quiet until we have a large part of the force vetted. We cannot allow any Voldemort supporters to escape or to learn of what we are doing."

Thus began the final clean up of the Auror forces and it was, as Shacklebolt had indicated, a very long and tense evening. The first shift were all brought in and proved to be loyal quickly and without incident, and the night shift Aurors also proved to be loyal. It was not until the patrolling Aurors returned that they had any difficulty. There were, of course, a few who generally espoused Pureblood beliefs, but though there were a few who seemed to hesitate, they were given the choice of swearing their loyalty, or an extended leave if they did not swear, as none bore the dark mark. No one took Shacklebolt on his offer to have them take time off, and all swore the oaths.

It had been Tonks's assignment to call new sets of Aurors into the conference room for them to be vetted, and she fancied that she had begun to perfect her method of doing so. They were generally going in as groups, though some who were thought to be risks were brought in alone, and she discovered that the trick was to call them in while dangling the bait of some intelligence, which was only the truth, of course.

Two on patrol Aurors had arrived back to file their reports before they were to return to their homes, when Tonks approached them.

"Sanderson, Puckle," she greeted the two men. "Shack wants to see you in the conference room."

"What's going on?" Puckle asked with a curious expression on his face.

"Briefing," Tonks replied. "There's some intel that suggests an attack tomorrow. Shack wants everyone to be on their toes."

If she had not been looking for it, she might have missed the flicker of interest on Sanderson's face. It did not necessarily mean anything, but she resolved to watch him as they moved to answer their summons.

As they entered, they were greeted by Kingsley, and by this time he was supported by about a dozen other Aurors and hit Wizards, while many others who were now proven to be loyal were stationed about the department. No one would escape their net on this evening.

Following behind the two men, Tonks could see the almost imperceptible tightening of Sanderson's shoulders as he saw the array of wands facing him. She had to admit that he was cool, though, as he did not break stride, nor did he immediately attempt to flee.

"Gentlemen," Shack said as he greeted them. "I need you both to bare your arms and swear your loyalty to the Ministry."

That, of course, was when Sanderson acted. He brought up his wand and fired off a quick curse at Shack, and attempted to dodge to the side, no doubt attempting to flee. His curse was harmlessly absorbed by Shack's quickly conjured shield, and Tonks's stunner put him out of commission before he could do more than pivot.

Puckle's eyes were opened wide as he watched his partner taken down, while Moody stumped toward the downed man and roughly pulled up his sleeve. There, on his left forearm, the dark mark writhed in apparent agitation.

"Sanderson!" Moody barked with disgust. His hatred for dark wizards was legendary. "I always knew that you were a little too full of yourself."

"Puckle?" Shack said with a hint of steel in his voice.

Though he was still obviously trying to recover from what he had just witnessed, Puckle nonetheless pulled his sleeve up and bared his arm, showing no sign of Voldemort's mark. He then quickly swore the oath, seeming eager to prove his loyalty.

"We appear to have reeled in our first fish," Shack said to no one in particular, and Sanderson was quickly trussed up and placed in one of the offices, while he awaited his journey down to the holding cells.

The evening continued on and though there were some Tonks thought might be potential Death Eaters, everyone else checked out until the end of the evening, when one of the last to be called in was exposed—though with much less drama—as a Death Eater. In all, the entire force had been vetted, and two Voldemort supporters uncovered.

Still later, the entire force which could be spared from their patrols, were gathered in the large auditorium, where Shack was to reveal their mission for the coming day.

"Thank you all for joining us and for proving your loyalty." Shack paused and looked around the room. "We have credible intelligence which informs us that an attack will be made tomorrow at Hogsmeade. For those who do not have children attending Hogwarts, I will inform you that Hogsmeade weekend is scheduled for tomorrow and the children are the Dark Lord's targets.

"The day in Hogsmeade has been cancelled," he continued above the murmurs which had welled up throughout the room, "but the students still have not been told. Coward that he is, the Dark Lord expects to take school children hostage to use against us. We will spring his trap and catch his forces in one of our own.

"But before we get into the specifics of the plan, who wants to be Harry Potter?"

* * *

A trip to Hogsmeade was just what the doctor ordered, in Harry's opinion. Days of being in the castle, stuck in classes, or simply trying to avoid talking about his fate were wearing on him and he wanted nothing more than to escape for a while and just be a teenager. As much as was possible, of course.

The situation between him and the two girls was a little frosty, he had to admit. To say that they were unhappy with him over the words they had exchanged the previous evening was a massive understatement. In fact, their pointed disapproval was manifest in the manner in which they avoided him, though they did not avoid him with their injured expressions and censorious looks.

To be honest, it was a bit of a relief to Harry. The girls wanted the best for him—he was well aware of that and he loved them all the more for it. But they did not understand—they _could not_ understand—just exactly what he was going through. As much as he appreciated their positive outlooks and upbeat demeanors, he did not particularly feel like being upbeat. It was perhaps a little childish to be acting so, but Harry felt he was owed a little leeway. He was the only one who was under a sure sentence of death.

Thus, a trip away from all of that was looked upon with a certain level of anticipation, not to mention a healthy dose of relief. The exertion of going to the village, the familiar sights of the village and the shops, the noise and comfort of the Three Broomsticks; all of these were a distraction from his increasingly complicated life. And if Hermione and Fleur could not be convinced to leave the subject of the Horcruxes behind, well he figured that he could lose himself in the company of his other friends for a while. Surely Ron would not object to some time spent in his company.

This was why Harry was more than a little annoyed that it would not happen. Voldemort was the author of so much misery in his life—now the man was even preventing Harry from losing himself in a few short carefree hours in Hogsmeade. Chuckling to himself, Harry reflected that preventing his enemy from enjoying himself was certainly _not_ the reason the Dark Lord was planning an attack that day. If only his motives could be so innocuous!

"I apologize for the inconvenience," the Headmaster stated as he rose to speak to the student body that morning during breakfast. "I am afraid Hogsmeade weekend has been cancelled."

A wave of unhappy murmuring rose up in the room, but Dumbledore, unperturbed by the dissatisfaction, held up his hands for silence. "In addition, all students will remain in the Great Hall until further notice." He smiled kindly down at them. "I assure you that this is for your own safety. We have received reports that the Dark Lord may have something planned today in the village. This is why you will not be allowed to leave the school.

"Now," Dumbledore continued with a grandfatherly smile, "if you will all just be patient, I believe some of you may be asked to further support today's defense plan."

Dumbledore said nothing further after that rather enigmatic statement, but Harry was not paying attention to him. He was rather carefully watching the Slytherins in particular, and though most of them appeared to either be as surprised as anyone else—no doubt, they were either uninvolved, or were _true_ Slytherins, unlike that complete waste of space Malfoy—there still appeared to be a few reactions, most notably in the person of Pansy Parkinson. No doubt the Slytherins had been warned that something was to occur, and to either keep to certain areas, or to avoid Hogsmeade altogether. What was clear was that the girl knew something, though Harry could not determine exactly what it was.

Of course, as had happened the previous Monday, Harry and the Association were once more put in charge of the castle's safety, to the obvious annoyance—yet again—of Roger Davies, not to mention the clear distaste of certain Slytherins. But it was what he had expected, after all. And though he would not be able to lose himself in the festivities surrounding a trip to Hogsmeade, perhaps he would be able to forget his troubles while immersing himself in his duties regarding the castle. He hoped so, at least. This burden he was carrying was turning out to be much heavier than he had ever imagined.

* * *

At just a few moments before noon that Saturday, the Ministry forces, along with many members of the Order of the Phoenix, lay in wait in the village of Hogsmeade for the Death Eater forces to appear. Morale was exceptionally high; though there had been many incidents since the attack on the Ministry almost a week before, in most cases the Ministry forces had arrived at the sites of the various Death Eater attacks finding no one left and no one to pursue. This was really the first chance most of them would have to truly strike back at the Death Eaters, and most were eager for a little payback. This time the Death Eaters would pay, and doubly so, for such a cowardly act as attacking school children.

Sirius Black was of two minds about the fact that the Ministry forces were currently waiting for the Death Eaters to show. On the one hand the fact that they had the information about the attack was a huge tactical advantage, and they now had an opportunity to deal Voldemort a major blow, which would hopefully make him think before attacking again, especially any target which was situated in such proximity to Hogwarts. On the other hand he had been—justly, he thought—angered by the manner in which Harry had managed to gain the information.

Thoughts of his godson's behavior over the past few days brought a scowl to Sirius's face. The boy had reason to be upset—it was not every day that one was told that there was nothing to be done about the death sentence hanging over him. Sirius understood that. But ever since Remus had returned with his information, a certain fatalistic outlook had settled on Harry, and one which Sirius was not certain how to dislodge. Harry had not precisely given up—he was still the same determined young man that Sirius had come to know better in the past few months—it was more that he had decided that nothing could be done, and that he would go out in a blaze of glory if he was fated to go out at all.

Again, Sirius understood that Harry's talents did not extend to spell crafting—even if he had the training—and were much more suited for action. He quite literally had no peer in the school, regardless of year, when it came to innate ability in dueling or fighting, nor when it came to sheer brute strength. In fact, Sirius was uncertain as to whether _anyone_ in the entire school, including the teachers, could match him in terms of sheer strength—with the exception of Dumbledore—and he was only fifteen years of age!

But he would have thought that, fighter as he was, Harry would hold on to his optimism and hope that a resolution for his problem would be found. Sirius could detect no such hope in Harry's outlook. He seemed like he had accepted his fate and was only determined to take the Dark Lord down with him. It was frustrating in the extreme, as Sirius had by no means given up on a solution. It was out there. They only needed to find it.

"Hey, Sirius. Are you still with me?"

Pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a voice, Sirius glanced over to his right to see the smiling visage of Hestia Jones peering at him with some amusement.

"Sorry, just thinking," Sirius replied, feeling a hint of embarrassment.

"Well, there's a first time for everything," Hestia teased, "but do you really think this is the right time?"

"You've been spending too much time around Moony," Sirius groused, though he favored her with a grin of his own.

"I hardly think that. He's only been back for a couple of days."

"Well it sure seems that way. He's the only one who would dare speak to me that way."

Hestia laughed. "And maybe Harry? And all of his friends?"

"Way to burst my bubble." He affected an injured air, but Sirius was pretty certain that his slight smile of amusement completely wrecked it. Ah well, Hestia was coming to know him too well to be fooled in any case, even if he had been trying to do so.

"Anyway," Hestia said with exaggerated patience, "we'd best be on our toes. It's almost noon."

Nodding, Sirius looked away and glanced at his watch, noting that the time was indeed quickly approaching noon. All over the town, the Ministry and Order forces were in position, waiting to spring the trap on the—hopefully—unsuspecting Death Eaters. Sirius and Hestia were manning some of the defenses on the east end of the town, where the giant attack was expected to occur. They were expecting to encounter nothing but school children and about to receive a rather unpleasant—for them—surprise.

"I hope this isn't a trap," Hestia said, her hand tightening worriedly around her wand.

"It isn't," Sirius replied, scanning the horizon for any hint of their foe.

Hestia turned to him. "Do you know where the intel came from?" she asked, curiosity lacing her voice.

Nodding, Sirius did not turn from his vigil, as focused as he had been distracted earlier. "I do. I can't tell you anything about it, but I do know that it's authentic."

Letting out a sigh of what Sirius took to be relief, Hestia turned her head and faced east as Sirius had done. There _was_ still a battle to be fought, after all, and their job would be to take down creatures who stood some twenty feet tall. Of course if everything went as planned, the giants would not even come within a hundred paces of them.

A few more moments of waiting, and Sirius began to detect a steady, rhythmic thumping, which was getting louder, and the vibrations on the ground becoming more noticeable. It appeared that the giants were about to arrive.

Turning, Sirius motioned to an Auror who as stationed just a few feet away and gave him a thumbs up. The young man—hardly more than a recruit—nodded, and turning on his heel, apparated away. Now that the attack had been verified, Kingsley, who was in overall command of the operation, needed to be notified of the giants' approach.

"Get ready," Sirius said to Hestia, and they both readied their wands.

As the thumping noise became louder, Sirius began to see a movement in the trees, as though a great wave was moving amongst them, bending and twisting them this way and that in its fury. And as the giants approached the edge of the tree line, their heads began to be visible above the trees, like large boulders floating up above the ground. When they finally broke through the edge of the forest, and stepped out onto the plain which led up to the sleepy Wizarding town, the ground was literally shaking with the force of their combined footsteps. They were ugly creatures, humanoid in shape, but appearing like rough mockeries of a human, as though their creator had intended to make beings in a direct image of humans, but had stopped before chiseling off the final pieces. There were also only six of them—the colony had only about eighty inhabitants, and the rest of the giants must have understood that they were dangerously close to extinction without tempting fate any further.

The emergence of the giants was the signal for the counterstrike, and Sirius, in tandem with Hestia, stepped away from the side of the house by which they had sheltered. Pointing their wands simultaneously at the large javelin situated at an angle facing the attacking force, they summoned their combined strength and cried out, "_Propulso!_"

In an instant, under the power of the charm—a stronger form of the banishing charm, with the added power of two magicals working in tandem—the large javelin flew out of its stand in the direction of their pointed wands, and shot out through the air, along with several others fired by other pairs of Aurors and Order members. These javelins had hardened, razor-sharp tips, and would pierce anything short of a stone wall. Sirius's javelin caught the lead giant in the chest over his heart, and passed right through the creature, staggering it. The giant shook his head for a moment before it once again tried to move forward, intent upon crushing the miniscule figures which had suddenly appeared before it. It was at this point that its brain apparently caught up with the fact that there was a problem lower down in the body, as the beast's feet would not obey it, and it toppled forward, hitting the ground with a loud, booming thump. It did not move again.

Its fellows fared no better as, though two or three of the javelins had missed their marks, there were more than enough to down every giant who had emerged from the woods. Only one survived the initial attack, and that was only because the javelin had missed its heart, only to puncture it through the other side of its chest. It lay gasping feebly, attempting to move until a pair of Aurors moved out quickly to put it out of its misery.

"Let's go," Sirius said, nodding to himself in satisfaction.

Hestia said nothing, but she fell in beside him as he moved away. She kept her countenance, but her face was a little green in response to what she had just witnessed. Unfortunately, if the fight against Voldemort got as hot as Sirius expected, she would likely have to get used to it.

* * *

In a more central part of the town, Remus Lupin lay in wait with a company of Aurors. Though he could not have known how Sirius was faring against the giants, he knew that the group which would face the attacking werewolves had the harder job. Giants, though fearsome, were stupid, and more importantly, were easily spotted due to their immense size. The Ministry forces had easily predicted their route to the town when they had managed to spot them in the forest the previous night, and Remus knew that with the plan to meet them that they should be dispatched with little difficulty.

The werewolves, however, were more difficult to predict. Not only had they not been able to determine from exactly where the attack would occur, but in addition to this, werewolves, though much smaller than giants, were in many cases much more dangerous, due to their agility, strength, and ferocity. And of course there was Greyback to consider…

As always, the thought of the monster who had made him what he was filled Remus with anger. The fact of the matter was that most of the werewolves in Britain had been afflicted by Greyback, and as he was expected to be there that day, Remus wanted a shot at him. In the first war they had almost crossed paths several times, but Remus was well aware that to have met Greyback then would have meant his death—he had been too young, too green to have survived an encounter with the wolf. Now, however, he was older and wiser, and Greyback had gotten that much older himself. Today he could end the scourge, and if he got the chance, he would do exactly that.

"Remus," Tonks said from his side. "The giants have arrived."

Nodding, Remus continued to scan the streets, wondering where the attack would come from, while feeling Tonks's eyes on him as he watched.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asked after watching him for a moment.

"It has to be done," Remus replied, choosing to make the matter as simple as possible. "The werewolf packs aren't truly evil. Most of them follow Greyback because of fear. If we can get rid of him, most of the rest should break and run."

"But why does it have to be you?"

"Because I'm the best equipped to do it." Remus turned and fixed his full attention on Tonks. "As a werewolf myself, I'm faster and stronger than most any man here. You know that werewolves don't depend only on their magic to fight. He'll be coming after anyone he sees with claws and teeth—he's always been more than a little feral and has only gotten worse over the years."

Tonks regarded him more than a little fearfully, but Remus only smiled at her, encouraging her to accept and do her part. "Look, I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little scared at the moment, but I've got to do this. I've been waiting my whole life for a shot at him. You just cover my back. We can take him down together."

Nodding, Tonks turned away, and Remus could see her almost visibly gearing herself up for the coming fight. Her concern and affection warmed his heart, and he had to admit to himself that her care and concern was beginning to overcome his habitual instinct to keep himself distant from any female. But there was now a job to do, and Remus was not about to get distracted. Distraction against Greyback meant almost certain death.

When the werewolf forces finally arrived, they did so without any warning whatsoever. A sudden howling rose up from just outside the town's limits and within moments, several disheveled forms could be seen entering the town at a high rate of speed.

In the aftermath, it was easy to see just what the Death Eaters' plan had been and, had Harry not discovered what they were up to, it likely would have succeeded. First, the giants would attack from the east, sowing confusion and fear, and then after the whole town was aware of the giant attack, the werewolves would hit from the south, bringing the students to utter panic. They would drive them toward apparent safety—the road to Hogwarts around the lake to the west and north, where they would be attacked by Death Eaters who would take their hostages before the students ever got to the Hogwarts ward boundaries.

In the moment, however, Remus could think of nothing but the fact that there were well over three dozen werewolves bearing down on the Ministry forces, most howling and causing a ruckus that could likely be heard almost all the way to Hogwarts. The Aurors let them approach without any resistance until they were almost within the edge of the furthermost buildings, when Remus, spotting Greyback leading the charge, stepped out and fired off a quick curse to get his attention.

Though obviously surprised, the alpha sidestepped the curse with almost negligent ease, and he peered toward Remus. A great fanged grin came over his face when he saw who was facing him.

"Lupin," he snarled, his voice like rocks falling down a hillside. "How very unfortunate for you that you are here today."

"Unfortunate for one of us," Remus replied evenly.

The werewolf bared his teeth—which Remus noted had been filed down to points—in the quintessential evil rictus of a grin. "I should have attended to you long ago, pup. I will enjoy this."

In werewolf pack society, Remus knew that the term "pup" was an insult, suggesting weakness and docility, but to Remus it meant nothing—he had never lived amongst other werewolves, and even if he had, the insults of someone who was in his own way as mad as Voldemort himself would have meant nothing. Instead of responding, Remus said nothing; he merely watched the alpha, knowing it would not be long before he made his move.

Greyback bared his teeth again and turned to one of his nearby followers. "Take the packs ahead and stick to the plan. I will take care of this foolish pup on my own."

The wolf acknowledged and began to move off with the others in tow, but Remus paid them no mind whatsoever, watching instead as Greyback began to circle. He said nothing more, apparently deciding that nothing further was to be said. But his stance and the aggressive energy he displayed in the flexing of his rippling muscles bespoke a burning determination to take care of Remus, who had defied him for his entire life. Whatever else could be said of the evil man, a lightweight he was not.

As quick as lightning the man moved, eschewing his wand for a direct, physical attack. Remus sidestepped and caught his descending arm, deflecting it away and countering with a heavy punch in the back of Greyback's head. The attack might have worked against a regular wizard, most having little to no knowledge of hand-to-hand fighting. Remus, however, had some experience himself, due to his time in the Muggle world, not to mention a few altercations he had had there.

The impact of the blow only caused Greyback to bare his teeth even more, and this time he followed up his physical attack with a blasting curse fired at point blank range. Remus, his shield ready, merely deflected it to the side, moving once again to avoid the werewolf's quickly followed up counter.

For most werewolves, it was almost impossible to tell that they were infected with lycanthropy unless they showed some physical signs, such as the cursed wounds on their face or some other area easily seen. Even this was not foolproof. With Greyback, however, it was impossible to see him as anything other than what he was. His hair was wild, extending down from his head along the underside of his jaw, and down on to his chest, almost like fur, so thick and dark it was. His nails and teeth were pointed and wolfish and fearsome, and in his eyes, black as coal, shone a feral insanity, almost as though he felt the rest of the world should suffer as he had suffered. As if his own suffering had not been largely his own doing. His time as a werewolf, where he had almost repudiated his humanity, had transformed him, almost making him more wolf than man. He was also almost supernaturally fast, his moves flowing from one to the other, and he was as comfortable using his claws and teeth as he was the wand held casually in one hand. There was no finesse about him—everything was brute force, dominating strength, and a feral need to kill. Even his spells were more forced from his wand than his magic working with him and through the wand.

But Remus had an ace up his sleeve—a plan with which he could defeat the wolf who, though he was aging, was still more than a match for the more civilized Remus. Greyback was all ferocity and power without mercy, but he clearly had little concept of strategy and tactics. Slowly, through his own counter-attacks and defenses, Remus maneuvered the wolf around to s specific location, and when he had him where he wanted him, he dropped to the ground, crying, "Now!"

From a dozen spots around the street, hidden Aurors, concealed with disillusionments spells, and augmented by silencing and scent hiding charms rose from their locations, and a hail of small, silver bullets rained down on Greyback, pelting him and piercing his flesh to embed themselves deep within his body, where they dissolved into their liquid state, entering his blood stream and poisoning him. Silver, unlike Muggles believed, did not kill werewolves on contact, but if dispensed inside a werewolf's body, it did poison them and cause them extreme pain.

Howling in pain, Greyback fell to his knees. His skin had changed from a ruddy color to the white of a sheet on wash day. He looked up, his face etched with pain, and he glared with pure hatred at Remus.

"Traitor!" he rasped. "Foul deceiver! You are a cretin without honor, Lupin, and I spit upon you!"

"What do you know of honor?" Remus panted, quickly rising to his feet. Between his heaving breaths he approached Greyback and stared the man who had inflicted this torment upon him and made his life different than it might have been. "A feral, reprehensible, disgusting beast preying on children. You can have nothing to say of honor!"

His eyes beginning to dilate with the pain, Greyback focused his eyes on Remus once more, forcing himself to speak. "I suppose you plan to take my place now? Fill my people's heads with fairy tales of how everything can be better for them?"

"I have no desire to rule," Remus said quietly. "I will simple set them free."

Screaming with rage, Greyback staggered to his feet, claws extended. "I will kill you!"

But before he could get within striking distance of Remus, his chest seemed to explode outward and, where his torso had been a moment before, a hole suddenly appeared. Behind him stood Tonks, her wand raised at him. Greyback stared stupidly down at the remains of his body and his wand slipped from his nerveless fingers. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth and he toppled to the side, dropping heavily into the dust of the street where he did not move again.

"I don't think so," Tonks said in a cold voice, as she looked at the body of the most notorious werewolf ever to roam the British Isles.

"Come on," Remus said, when no one moved.

He stepped forward and, catching the body of the criminal, hoisted him up over his shoulders, heedless of the blood which stained the body. "Let's go and relieve Voldemort of the werewolf packs."

* * *

Daniel Gonzalez was a young Auror, only a few years removed from his Hogwarts years. He was descended from a family who had been prominent in Brazil for centuries. Such movement, across the expanse of an ocean, no less, was certainly not common in the Wizarding world, but his father had been a younger son who had possessed a certain wanderlust and had travelled through many parts of the world as a young man, wandering as his fancy took him. Daniel did not know much about the Muggle world, but he had been told by his father that he had blended in with younger Muggles, backpacking while travelling from place to place much as a young Muggle might. By the time he had eventually made his way to England, the first war against Voldemort had just begun to heat up and, as a young man who had passed his NEWTs with distinction, had enrolled in the Auror department, completing his training and engaged in many conflicts at the height of the war.

He had also met a young woman in England, gotten married, and settled here, producing Daniel, who was the eldest, as well as three more children. When Daniel graduated from Hogwarts—he had managed to attend the famous institution because of his father's inheritance which had been passed down from family in Brazil—he had immediately enrolled in the Aurors, intent upon following in the footsteps of his sire. He had graduated a little more than two years previously.

Now, Daniel's father was a senior Auror and a section leader under the new Head Auror, Gawain Robards' direction. Daniel was a promising, but still relatively new recruit. Thus, one would have thought that it was Enrique Gonzalez who would be the important person in the day's action against the Dark Lord's forces. But that did not take into account the fact that Daniel had been chosen to play a very special role that day.

As the Ministry forces sat in wait that day for the Death Eaters to make their appearance, Daniel was busy in a pursuit of a different sort, and one in which he had not indulged in more than five years—the pleasure of a Hogsmeade weekend.

Keeping a close and watchful eye on his surroundings, Daniel nevertheless enjoyed the act of milling around in the village, wandering from one shop to the next, inspecting the wares, and generally just having a good time. The day brought back memories of his time attending the venerable institution and the fun he had had on the occasions when they had been allowed to visit the quaint little village.

And it did not hurt that his girlfriend, Sophie Dawson, who he felt was beautiful and elegant in her own right, was absolutely stunning that day. Not that he would always wish for her to wear a different face—in fact he was very careful not to mention anything of how she looked that day for he understood ladies well enough to know that complimenting her when she was wearing the face and body of a beautiful Veela would not be well received. But for them both to be masquerading as famous people was the chance of a lifetime. And the scenery was very nice too, not that he would ever tell Sophie that.

"I wish they would get on with it," Sophie said from his side, as she fidgeted with her skirt.

"What, aren't you having fun being famous for a while?" Daniel said with a grin.

Sophie shot him a withering glare, almost as though she suspected him of having inappropriate thoughts while she wore another body. "This body is throwing my balance off," she complained.

Daniel raised an eyebrow in her direction, to which she simply rolled her eyes. "Fleur Delacour has bigger boobs than I have. You men don't ever seem to think about how they affect our balance. You just want to ogle them."

"At least you aren't trying to impersonate a girl who's five inches shorter than you are," the girl to Daniel's other side chimed in. "I don't know how Hermione Granger can stand to be so short!"

"Somehow I don't think she really has a choice!" Daniel said with a laugh.

Frances Darbish, who was masquerading as Harry Potter's famous friend, pouted and turned away. "At least you got someone who was closer to your own size, _Harry_."

Smiling—a little smugly, he had to admit—Daniel responded, "But you still get to be someone famous!"

Frances shared a glance with Sophie. "Methinks someone is having a little too much fun."

"Well _someone_ has to. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity!"

"A once in a lifetime opportunity to be a target in Harry Potter's place," was the dry reply.

"Come on!" Daniel said with a laugh. "You're only looking at the negative part of this!"

"Remind me what the positive is?" Sophie snarked.

Daniel just grinned, content to simply enjoy the ride.

In this attitude they continued to move about the village, acting as young school children out on a day in the famous village, trying to be as normal as possible. As they moved from shop to shop, Daniel was able to catch the eyes of several others as they passed by. Not all the Hogwarts students had provided samples to allow Aurors to impersonate them—there were more students than there were Aurors, after all. And it was not as though they needed to impersonate every student in Hogwarts. Only third years and older were able to attend. And even if the younger years were able to be there, it would not exactly be practical—trying to impersonate a second year would almost certainly render one almost unable to fight effectively due to the size difference alone. But there were enough of them to provide an effective fiction to any watching Death Eaters that the Hogsmeade weekend had been allowed to proceed as usual.

It was just after noon that two things suddenly happened which informed them that the attack was about to proceed. First, word arrived that a force of giants had been spotted to the east of the village. A few moments later, the howling of the force of werewolves began to the south, though they stopped for a moment before picking up again. It was this signal which was their cue to act.

Stopping and trying to appear confused, Daniel went to work. He and his two companions gathered together any other students they could find, and began making preparations to return to the castle.

"Calm down everyone," Daniel said to the group of disparate students—polyjuiced Aurors—who had gathered near the Three Broomsticks. More were arriving all the time.

"We need to get back to the castle," he directed. "Let's go—Dumbledore will handle this."

From between the buildings to the south, the force of werewolves began to emerge and, as soon as they saw the gathered students, began to yell and draw attention to themselves. The group around Daniel broke and began to run in the direction of Hogsmeade Station and the safety of the castle's wards. Knowing that there was a large force of Aurors hidden, waiting for the right moment to strike at the invading werewolves—if the body of their leader could not be produced in time to convince them to surrender—he focused his attention on the path ahead of them, knowing that the Death Eaters would strike soon, attempting to capture a large number of students in the general confusion.

When the Death Eaters finally appeared, they found much more than they had bargained for.

* * *

There was no way that Sirius was about to miss any of the fun—he had spent too many years as a resident of Azkaban, indirectly pushed into being there due to Voldemort's inability to play nice. Now the Death Eaters were almost certainly walking into a trap and Sirius was determined that he would be part of the trap, and despite the fact that he and the others who had dealt with the giant threat could have said to have played their part, none of them hesitated for a second before moving into position to spring the ambush on the expected Death Eaters with the rest of the Auror force. Hopefully, the day's events would serve as a warning to the wanker styling himself as _Lord Voldemort_, and he would think before continuing to perpetrate his brutality on their society.

Not that Sirius thought the old Voldy was smart enough to take the hint. He had not even after his closest cronies had been shown straight to the door of the afterlife, nor even when baby Harry had proven to be more than a match for him. He certainly would not hesitate to throw more of his followers' lives away, if he thought for a moment that it would get him what he wanted.

But those thoughts were for another time—now his attention was required to deal with the matter at hand. Sirius and the others who had been present for the extermination of the giant force, eased into position with the rest of the Auror forces and settled in to wait, answering a few questions posed by their fellows as to the fate of the giants. The satisfaction the news engendered was readily recognizable, as the word passed up the lines to the rest of the ambush force. Although morale had already been high due to the opportunity to finally strike back at the Dark Lord's forces, it was now soaring to even greater heights at the news that the first attacking force had been destroyed with little threat to their own forces.

After a wait of a few moments, the cries of the approaching werewolf force reached them, and soon after they saw the disguised students begin to move en masse from the town toward the castle and the safety of the wards.

The polyjuiced Aurors had just drawn even with Hogsmeade station, when the flickers of pseudo motion began in earnest and the Death Eaters began portkeying in, blocking their path back to Hogwarts, as well as appearing in various strategic locations throughout the town. Obviously, someone in the werewolf force had been tracking the supposed students' progress, and had somehow informed the Death Eaters the most advantageous time to begin their attack.

Of course, that was when the whole plan fell apart. The Death Eaters—a force of some fifty strong—portkeyed in, dressed in their dark robes and ridiculous looking masks. But rather than finding a group of terrified school children, they found themselves squaring off against a group wearing the faces of school children, but possessing skills beyond what any child should possess.

And in addition, the hidden Aurors rose from their positions, and began peppering the Death Eaters with spells. Within minutes, the village had erupted into chaos.

Sirius, with Hestia still by his side, went on the offensive immediately, snapping off a bludgeoning curse, followed by an array of stunners, banishment charms, disarmers, and a host of other spells. By his side, Hestia, who had proven that she could work very effectively with him, concentrated on defending them from any stray spells which made their way from the increasingly ragged and desperate Death Eaters.

Stepping away from a rather nasty looking dark cutting curse, Sirius responded with a Reductor, and two stunners which forced his opponent into motion, and once he had him moving, Sirius created a flame whip, and lassoed it around his opponent's head, jerking the unfortunate man forward and off his feet. The head of the flame whip set his robes on fire and heated his mask almost instantaneously, causing the man to scream and throw his offending garment off as quick as he was able.

A binding spell followed and Sirius soon had the man all trussed up, like a goose about to go over the fire. Of course, he had already been slightly cooked, Sirius thought with a snicker.

Glancing around, Sirius noted that the fight had largely become a route, with Death Eaters running this way and that, intent upon escaping the carnage, while some few who had the presence of mind, used their portkeys to escape back to the dubious mercy of the Dark Lord. There was almost no one left who could pose a threat.

Sharing a glance with Hestia, Sirius stepped forward to see who he had managed to catch in his web. The man was still conscious, though apparently in a great amount of pain, as the welts from his close encounter with the flame whip were already rising on his skin. He glared up at Sirius as defiantly as he was able, pouring all of his contempt and hatred into his disdainful glare.

Sirius knew him.

"Well, well, well," he said pleasantly, as he knelt down in front of the unfortunate man. "If it isn't my old friend Avery." Sirius smirked, knowing it would rile the man up even further, knowing he could do nothing about it. "You seem to have left the Wizengamot chambers rather precipitously the last time I saw you. Somehow, I get the feeling you're going to be joining your old buddies a lot sooner than you would have hoped."

* * *

Bearing the body of the most feared werewolf ever to have roamed the British isles, Remus quickly made his way toward the ever-increasing sounds of battle in Hogsmeade. Hopefully, he was not too late—he was certain that most of the other werewolves could be induced to lay down their wands and cease the fight they had no allegiance to Voldemort, after all. In fact, he doubted most of them had any allegiance to Greyback, for that matter. It was undoubtedly fear which had kept most of them in line.

Now that the old wolf was dead, they should break very easily. But they would need to be acquainted with the fact that they were now free before they could take such a step, and Remus aimed to make sure they knew as soon as possible.

Stepping onto High Street from a side alley, Remus quickly assessed the state of the battle. The Ministry plan to counter the Death Eater's attack had clearly been a success, as the Auror forces were obviously in mop up mode—there was very little coherence left in the Death Eaters' actions, as the actions of each man had degenerated into a desperate need to escape and survive. Yet, from Remus's perspective, it appeared as though few had managed to escape, confident as they had been that their plan would succeed.

A few guttural howls caught his attention, and he noted that the group of werewolves were still resisting, and had formed up into a tight group near the Hog's Head, and was facing off with an equal number of Aurors. Instantly Remus understood—these werewolves would not flee the battle site until they had been told to do so by Greyback himself. If he was not able to stop it, the battle would become a bloodbath before it was over.

Breaking into a trot, Remus approached the tight knot of werewolves, and upon garnering some of their attention, he turned slightly and heaved his burden from his shoulders, where it fell into the dust where it belonged.

Almost as one, the assembled werewolves gaped at the body of their former leader, and at the one who had killed the unkillable. Remus watched them closely, looking for some sense of their reaction. Surprise certainly was most evident, but Remus thought that he detected a certain measure of respect, relief on most faces, and rage on a select few—likely those who had been closest and had held a certain level of power under the deranged werewolf.

"Lay down your wands," Remus said quietly. "You need fear Greyback no longer."

One of the assembled werewolves stepped forward and snarled at Remus. "Foul traitor! You will pay for this outrage!"

At that point, several things happened at once. As Remus crouched down to face off against the enraged man, he noticed several of the other werewolves look to one another, before they began to move. Moving quickly, the bulk of the invading werewolves singled out several of those Remus had noted as being angry at the death of the leader, and with quick and brutal efficiency, those wolves were put down by the combined might of the rest of the pack.

Blanching, Remus looked away, yet knowing that pack justice was not known for its subtlety or mercy. Several of those Aurors confronting them also looked away, disgusted with the fate of those who nonetheless almost certainly deserved it.

When justice had been dispensed, the assembled wolves once again turned back to Remus and one stepped forward. "The pack submits to your authority, head wolf."

Though he was not exactly surprised by this turn of events, Remus was not about to accept such a responsibility, nor did he think he deserved it—if any of those here were to learn the truth about Greyback's demise, they would no doubt consider him to be worse than their recently departed leader. To a wolf, such treachery was worthy of nothing more than contempt. To Remus, who had not grown up in the pack, it was necessary to ensure that a monster could no longer prey on the lives of children.

"And I will not take it," Remus replied. "You don't need to live like this, under the yoke of a tyrant like Greyback."

"How do you suggest we live?" someone from the back yelled out.

"The Ministry has never been welcoming to us," another broke in.

"Times are changing," Remus said. "I think you'll find that the current Ministry is not so hostile to us as the previous had been."

"And how would you know?"

"I've met her. She spoke to me as an equal, and agreed with me that what has been done to us in the past is not right."

"Do you really believe things will change?" asked an incredulous voice.

"And what about people like Umbridge?" said another.

"My dearest friend has taken up his seat in the Wizengamot," was Remus's simple reply. "His godson, and the son of another of my closest friends will be old enough to take up his own seat in a few years. The Minister is sympathetic. Things are ripe for change. And maybe you haven't heard, but Umbridge is not very popular right now.

"But I can tell you this," he continued, looking out over the mass of werewolves, most of whom seemed to be wavering, "acting like… _this filth,_" he toed Greyback's carcass, "will not endear any of us to the Ministry.

"I won't lie to you—the process will be long, and changing the perceptions of the population will be difficult. There will still be those who will cling to their hatreds and their prejudices. But they _can be changed_ if we all work together and repudiate the deeds of those like Greyback."

Silence fell over the assembled as the werewolves considered his words. Being a werewolf himself, Remus knew that the temptation had been placed—what most of his kind wanted more than anything else was acceptance. That and a chance to live their lives, work and support themselves, and live free of prejudice.

_This_ was what was important, Remus decided. They did not have to live as beasts any longer—did not have to be ruled by the fact that they were infected by a disease. For what was lycanthropy? Was it not nothing more than an illness—in incurable one to be sure—but an illness all the same? Remus was certain similar such life long illnesses existed in the Muggle world, but those afflicted with them were still able to live their lives as they wished, and without the prejudice under which werewolves lived. Of course lycanthropy was an illness which could carry drastic consequences if the proper precautions were not taken.

But a werewolf was, as he had previously contemplated, essentially indistinguishable from anyone else for every day of the month, other than that of the full moon. Should they be ruled by that one day instead of what they could accomplish in all the others? Should Remus be ruled by the full moon?

Blinking in sudden understanding, Remus chanced a furtive glance to his side where Tonks stood watching the werewolves, waiting for their decision. And in that instant Remus understood. He did not need to allow the full moon to rule him. He could have joy and happiness in his life, and he understood that this was all in his reach, in the person of the wonderful young woman at his side.

And he would take that chance, he decided, surprising himself with the firmness of his resolve. Perhaps it would even serve as a sort of example to those like him, that they could also have the same. But that matter was secondary. The important thing was Tonks's happiness, and his own.

"What do we need to do?" said the werewolf at the front who had served as the spokesman thus far.

"Leave Voldemort's service," a new voice spoke up.

Remus turned to see Kingsley Shacklebolt striding up to them. "If you leave in peace and pledge to leave Voldemort, there will be no reprisals for your actions this day.

"But know this," Shacklebolt continued, his voice hardening, "if you leave today and return to him, there will be no further opportunity for redemption extended. Any werewolf found supporting Voldemort will be put down with the Dark Lord and his followers."

"For myself, I never wanted to get involved in the first place," the werewolf said. "I will leave the Dark Lord and give him no further assistance. I cannot guarantee that all will feel the same way."

A murmur of agreement rumbled through those assembled.

"Very well," Kingsley said, with a tight nod. "We will begin to address your issues as soon as possible, but for the time being, Voldemort's defeat takes precedence."

Nothing further was said. The lead werewolf bowed, and within minutes he had gathered the group and they began to make their way from the town boundaries. In a few moments, they were gone.  
"Good work, Remus!" Shacklebolt said, slapping him in the back. "We can talk about this further with the Minister. For now, there is plenty more for me to do here."

He turned and left and the assembled Aurors dispersed, but Remus was all but oblivious to their departure. He had eyes only for Tonks who, though she appeared to be somewhat nonplused, also seemed to recognize that something significant had changed. Now was not the time, Remus decided. There was still much to do.

But things would change between them. Of that he was determined.

* * *

In the old, run-down manor house in which Voldemort had set up his headquarters, he sat on his throne, waiting for news of the attack and the return of the hostages he had commanded be brought to him. Though he would never admit to himself, he was almost shivering with glee and barely suppressed impatience. It would never do for the troops to see this—Voldemort was always calm and patient, not to mention supremely confident.

The truth of the matter was that the war was not going nearly as well as he would have liked, though in truth it was only a week old. The attack on the Ministry had ultimately failed, in part due to the meddlesome old headmaster, and in part due to sheer incompetence. And though fear was now rampant in Wizarding Britain, far fewer of its populace had fallen to his forces than he would have thought. It would seem that the people had learned a thing or two from the previous war and that they were now prepared for the attacks. If only the Ministry building had fallen, then they would control in the instruments necessary to control the populace.

Of even more troubling concern was the fact that the neutrals had by and large evaded his forces, throwing their lot in with Dumbledore and all but spitting in his face. David Greengrass had all but openly defied him, something which Voldemort could not tolerate. His day would come. The entire world would in the end learn to fear the name Voldemort.

A motion at the entrance to his throne room caught Voldemort's attention and he brought himself up even straighter, eager for the news of the attack's success. A few Muggleborns would not be amiss—they would give his troops something to play with. But the true prize was some of the Pureblood scions whose guardians had defied him. If only Susan Bones, the Weasley children, the Longbottom boy and others had been brought before him, then he would count the day a success.

What met his eyes was certainly not what he expected. A ragged and dirty man, bloody and beaten, staggered into the room and toward the throne, the ever-faithful Bellatrix following closely behind him. His clothes were rent and torn, and he walked as though he was in great pain.

"My Lord," he gasped as he fell to his knees before the throne.

"What has happened?" Voldemort kept his tone even, though inside a rage was already building.

"We were ambushed, My Lord. It was almost like they knew we were coming."

Shocked, Voldemort could only stare at the man while his words played over and over again through Voldemort's brain.

"They knew we were coming. They knew we were coming. _They knew we were coming!_"

An anger he had never before felt descended over his mind like a wave of blood, and the Dark Lord stood.

"We have been betrayed," he intoned harshly. Only one response could meet such betrayal. "Give me your arm."

The man extended a shaky arm, and Voldemort pressed his wand against the dark mark emblazoned upon it. Ignoring the man's writhing screams, he poured his hatred, his malice, and his implacable will into the call, making it very clear what awaited those who did not respond. There would be a response. He would find out who this traitor was and they would pay the price.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Once again thanks to everyone following. And my apologies for the delay. My wife and kids returned from visiting her mother, and as her mother lives in Japan, the jet lag is a bitch—trust me, it's as hard on me as it is on them, as they're generally awake all night. With a three year-old in the house, she doesn't exactly understand that she needs to be quiet so daddy can sleep!

2. The second reason for my miss of last week's post, is the fact that I've been swamped doing the final edits of my first published book. If anyone is currently reading _Acting on Faith_, which is posted on this site, you had best finish it right away. It will be taken down within the next day or two. I'm so excited that I'm finally about to get something published!

3. I know the chapter is still a little rough in spots, but I tidied it up as best I could on limited time and posted, as I didn't want to make you all wait any longer. Hopefully, it was worth the wait!

4. Finally, next week is the second part of the reveal about Horcruxes. I promise I won't miss that post!


	61. Chapter 60 – A Chilling Discovery

**Previously: **The Weasleys and Delacours share Grimmauld Place with the Grangers. Tonks participates in the vetting of the entire Auror force. Dumbledore announces that Hogsmeade weekend is cancelled. Sirius and Remus face off against the giants and the werewolves, with the giants being decimated, and Remus defeating Fenris Greyback. Aurors impersonate Hogwarts students, and they fight back when the Death Eaters appear. Remus reasons with the remaining werewolves, convincing them to leave Voldemort's service. Voldemort discovers that the attack has been repulsed, and decides that he has a traitor among his forces.

* * *

**Chapter 60 – A Chilling Discovery**

This was bad.

It was a burning like Snape had never felt before, not in the years before the Dark Lord's first fall, and certainly not since, for all the setbacks the Dark Lord had faced since returning.

And quite frankly, it scared him—scared him out of his wits.

The Dark Lord was seriously displeased about something and was calling his followers home to answer for it. And it did not take a genius to know just exactly what had angered him—though Snape had no direct knowledge of what had happened in Hogsmeade, the fact that Dumbledore had cancelled Hogsmeade weekend at the last moment and ensured that no one was able to leave the Great hall in the meantime spoke volumes. Snape certainly was not aware of how Dumbledore had come to know of Voldemort's plans, but he somehow had, and had arranged to turn the trap back on the Dark Lord's forces.

Regardless of the fact that living had almost become a chore since the death of his first—and only!—true friend, Severus Snape was possessed of a healthy self-preservation instinct. That it was incongruous, he was well aware, but despite that self knowledge, Snape had no desire whatsoever to meet his maker. Everything he did was done with the twofold goal of bringing about the Dark Lord's defeat and surviving that defeat himself; once he was finally free of Voldemort—and of Dumbledore, for that matter—he would worry about the future and whether he wanted any part of it.

If the Dark Lord's forces had been ambushed, then he would no doubt be furious, if the burning pain in Snape's arm had not already attested to that fact. It was becoming more dangerous by the moment, this little game he was playing at Dumbledore's behest, and though the Dark Lord still called him in frequently, listened to his opinions and the information he had to impart with interest, that damnable fool crusade into the Ministry had made him much more cautious. Snape could tell that he was not trusted to the extent he had been before, and it made every move he made doubly dangerous.

Still, there was nothing to be done. It was either respond to the Dark Lord's summons and once again risk his life playing his role, or hide out in the castle until the Dark Lord was finally defeated, as he was well aware of the fact that his life would not be worth two knuts beyond the wards of Hogwarts if the Dark Lord became aware of his true role in the conflict.

Moments before, several Aurors had entered the Great Hall, had approached Dumbledore, and were now conferring closely with the Headmaster. Given the fact that at least one of the Death Eaters had obviously escaped and reported to the Dark Lord, and the fact that the Aurors were now here, it meant that whatever the Dark Lord had planned had been repulsed successfully. He could now respond to the Dark Lord's summons.

He sidled off to the side of the Great Hall, making for the small anteroom off to the side, from which he knew there was a short passage which would lead him out of the Great Hall, noting that Dumbledore saw his movement and would understand what was happening. It did not miss his sharp gaze that Potter had seen his movement as well, though he did not doubt that several others had as well—he was not exactly an inconspicuous figure, after all. He sneered at the boy, knowing that Potter would also understand what was happening, while ignoring everything else but the need to leave.

Once in the anteroom, he tapped his wand on a certain stone, and stepped into the passage, closing the entrance behind him. He quickly applied a disillusionment charm before he exited a short time later in a side hallway. From there it was a simple matter to make his way down to the courtyard, and from thence out onto the grounds of Hogwarts, evading the few Aurors who were stationed there, watching out over the school with a bored eye. It was clear that they were more concerned about someone _getting in_ to Hogwarts, rather than someone trying to leave. As soon as he felt he had progressed far enough that his disapparation would not be overheard, he turned on his heel and left Hogwarts.

The manor in which the Dark Lord had made his home was the same—depressing grey clouds, covering a bleak landscape in which stunted trees and undergrowth strained and fought for every inch of growth they were able to obtain. Perhaps it was fancy, brought out by the events of the morning and fear of the Dark Lord's response, but it almost felt to Snape like the location was even gloomier and more desolate than it had ever been before. Or perhaps it was an air of expectation, almost as though nature itself was waiting for the expected explosion of the Dark Lord's temper. Snape had always known the man to maintain a flawless level of control over himself and his emotions, but he had also almost sensed a building tension in the Dark Lord, like he was a frayed rope, approaching his breaking point. The thought was most _certainly not_ a comfort at that time.

For once, there was no Death Eater on duty at the entrance to the manor, though to be honest, those who had been stationed here had never been exactly diligent in keeping watch. Snape thought that it would have been a better idea to have someone stationed on the roof to take advantage of the better vantage point, but that was not something he was about to mention. If the Dark Lord wished to be overconfident, then Snape had no problem allowing him to be so.

Almost as silent as a ghost, Snape passed through the hallways of the manor house, following its twisting halls and worn and faded décor—which at one time in the past might almost have been fine—making his way toward the Dark Lord's throne room. It was on his way there that he noticed the door to the large ballroom was open, and a man was keeping watch from the entrance.

Curious, Snape approached, and when the man caught sight of him, he motioned him to enter the room. Inside, Snape was shocked by the sight which met his eyes. Row upon row of Death Eaters were lined up within the ballroom, all facing the end of the room, where the Dark Lord stood watching him enter, his eyes glittering like hard agates.

In truth, Snape had not given much credence to the report that there were several hundred in the Dark Lord's forces, and answered—truthfully—that he had not heard of any recruiting efforts in other countries when Dumbledore had asked him. During the height of the first war, Snape had attended gatherings in which nearly all Death Eaters had been present, but even then, he did not think that their numbers had ever exceeded sixty or seventy.

There were easily several hundred in the room today, maybe as many as five hundred, and the vast majority of them were completely unknown to him. Dumbledore would want to know of his observations, but he knew that first it would take all the skill his possessed to emerge from this room intact.

"Come forward, Severus. So good of you to join us." The sardonic mockery in his voice was something which Snape had heard many times from the Dark Lord, but seldom had it been _directed at him_. The Dark Lord was clearly in a foul mood.

"Now that we have all arrived," the Dark Lord stated, with a sidelong glance at Snape, as Snape moved to the front of the room to stand by Selwyn, "we may begin."

The Dark Lord swept the room with his gaze. "Today was to be the day when we finally took what was ours. The attack at the Ministry, although it was ultimately not successful, was nevertheless useful in that it displayed without any hint of ambiguity, that we are here to stay and that we can reach them wherever they may choose to hide.

"With the children of the most prominent members of society under our control, they would quickly have capitulated to our demands, or seen their next generation perish as a result. _That_ was the true thrust of today's attack on Hogsmeade."

Snape was not precisely surprised. The Dark Lord had tried similar tactics in the previous war, though not on the same scale as the day's efforts had obviously been. He had even been successful in capturing certain children last time around, though he had obviously not been able to induce the Ministry to capitulate. In fact, Snape knew little more than that commonly known fact; he had kept his knowledge of the Dark Lord's activities general in nature due to his need to keep himself above whatever the man was doing, even in the first war, before it had become general knowledge that he had been a Death Eater.

"Today did not go as planned," the Dark Lord continued to say. "The giants attacked first as we had intended, but it appears as though none of them survived the day, which I do not need to tell you all is a blow to our forces. The werewolves then approached to herd the students toward our forces so that they could be taken. But the werewolves were attacked, and Greyback was killed. And then when our forces arrived, they did not find panicked students. They found students who were expecting them, and who fought back with deadly force."

The Dark Lord paused for a moment, his eyes raking over his minions, and Snape could see that several of them were almost quaking in their boots. The Dark Lord was intimidating, and his reputation was even more so. Snape was largely inured to the man's intimidation—he needed to be if he was to fulfill his role.

"Subsequent reports have suggested that the students in Hogsmeade were actually Aurors using polyjuice to impersonate the students.

"This can mean only one thing—we have a traitor in our midst."

A strangled gasp sounded throughout the hall, as those within appeared, almost as one, to each check out his neighbor, as though expecting to find a traitor by sight alone. The fear in the ballroom ratcheted up dramatically, and if Snape was not so amused, he might have been one of those who were in fear for their very life. The irony of the situation was, of course, that _there was_ a traitor in the room—though Snape would call his own actions vengeance, rather than treacherous, given the fact that the Dark Lord had broken his word and killed Lily. But that traitor had nothing to do with the day's debacle. Indeed, Snape still had no idea of how Dumbledore had managed to obtain information about the attack, though he had a suspicion that Potter was somehow involved. But what he was absolutely certain of was that it had not been of his doing, which was likely why Dumbledore had kept him in the dark about it altogether. He could now answer truthfully that he had not known anything until after the fact.

But before that, the Dark Lord obviously had many more things to say. To the right and a little behind where he stood, Bellatrix looked impassively on, her eyes, though they darted everywhere, like she saw a ghost in every shadow, appeared at times to be fixed on him. Snape did not allow himself a response, contenting himself with returning her gaze impassively until she moved on to her next subject.

"Never, in all the time since I organized my loyal followers into a force which can dominate Wizarding society has there been a traitor," the Dark Lord was saying. He began to walk slowly down the line of Death Eaters, his eyes roving this way and that, as though attempting to command the traitor to reveal himself. The scene was reminiscent of an old Muggle movie that Lily had cajoled him into watching, of an old Muggle general inspecting his troops. Snape suppressed a grimace—he certainly did not need thoughts of Lily distracting him at present.

"Does anyone here know what happens to traitors?" The Dark Lord's scathing gaze raked over the assembled, causing more than one to flinch slightly, or shiver at the thought of his attention focused on them. "A traitor's fate is that which meets the demand of retribution. And retribution is a demand of justice. The traitor in this room shall be ferreted out, and brought to justice. This, I promise you all."

The Dark Lord continued to speak of betrayal and retribution as he made his way down the line, but Snape only half listened to him. Truly, this was the largest danger he had ever faced in the game against the Dark Lord. For the Dark Lord to openly begin speaking of a traitor, it meant that he felt he knew for a fact that there was one, and Snape knew that as the one who _lived with the enemy_, so to speak, suspicion would immediately fall upon him. Even now he could feel the eyes of many fixed on him, for even if they did not know him personally, everyone was aware of the spy in Dumbledore's midst.

"Ah, Severus," the Dark Lord stated smoothly as he passed Snape in line. He stopped and peered at Snape with a gleam in his eye, while Snape forced himself to calm. "You have been in the bosom of the enemy for many years. Tell me, has Dumbledore managed to induce you into believing in his love and forgive all philosophy?"

"Assuredly not, My Lord," Snape responded, thinking that it was the truth, after all. He was only aligned with Dumbledore for the sake of defeating the Dark Lord—he did not really believe in Dumbledore's brand of the world order at all. In fact, as the years had progressed, Snape had come to believe in nothing, for there was nothing which could take away the pain of his existence.

"But surely he has attempted to… convert you?"

"Why would he when he thinks I'm already converted?" Snape replied. "I'm his trusted spy in the ranks of his enemy."

"Are you? The fact that your information about Potter's excursion to the Ministry was false brings into question your usefulness as a spy."

"Whatever Dumbledore is, he is not a fool."

"No, he is not at that."

The Dark Lord paused, and Snape watched him, beginning to feel true concern over the situation. This line of questioning was becoming tenser by the moment. Did the Dark Lord truly suspect him of betrayal?

No, he could not—at least not enough to accuse Snape openly. Though the Dark Lord was not above toying with him if he truly thought Snape was betraying him—and would kill him without a second thought if he truly believed it—Snape did not think he would be so oblique in his accusations. This was more about testing him, trying to see if he would reveal something under pressure. Snape was certain of it. He would not give the Dark Lord the satisfaction of breaking.

"But he appears to have fed you some disinformation in the recent past," Voldemort continued. "Tell me—did he specifically direct you to tell me what you did about Potter before the Department of Mysteries?"

"Dumbledore and I have never had such a conversation," Snape replied. "He allows me to determine what I will report to you, trusting that I will not reveal too much."

"An amazing level of trust for one who is, after all, one of my marked Death Eaters."

"Just as _you_ trust me, My Lord," Snape said. "I only have _one master_, My Lord, and it is not the old man in the school."

This was, in fact, another truth; he _had_ only one master as Dumbledore, for all that he had made Snape swear airtight oaths, had never tried to assume such a role. And a good thing too, as Snape may have strangled the old man with his own beard if he had attempted it.

"Mr. Malfoy seems to think differently," the Dark Lord commented.

Snape raised an eyebrow, and looked coolly to his left, where the blond Pureblood stood, looking at him through narrowed eyes. It was a wonder that Snape had not noticed him there before, though perhaps it was not truly surprising as Draco was not truly relevant any longer. He had proven his incompetence over and over, and Snape wondered why the Dark Lord still kept him around. Perhaps it was because of the Malfoy fortune, though Snape had heard that it was tied up in the Wizengamot, as the father had been executed for his crimes, and the son was an escaped fugitive. Then again, perhaps it was due to whatever loyalty the Dark Lord felt he owed to the son of his longtime faithful follower. It could not be on the boy's merits alone, as he was truly only remarkable in his ineptitude.

"Oh?" was the only response Snape allowed himself.

"Indeed," the Dark Lord replied with a smile and a glance at the boy. "He has been filling my ears with his tales of your actions at the school, and seems to think that you are actually in league with Dumbledore."

"I see."

The Dark Lord looked at him appraisingly. "Do you have nothing to say for yourself?"

"Should I respond to the ill-thought words of a petulant child?" Snape asked.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Draco bristle. "How dare—"

"Peace, Mr. Malfoy," the Dark Lord interrupted. "We have agreed that you require some additional education. Work to prove his words wrong—your angry words in response only prove him to be right."

And though Draco appeared as though he wanted to continue, he reluctantly held his peace, instead settling into a sulky glare. Snape decided he had better things to worry about—the boy was a menace.

"My Lord, Mr. Malfoy has proved himself to be nothing more than the most Gryffindorish Slytherin I have ever met," Snape replied with a sneer at the boy. "He struts around the school, informing all of his status, expecting all to genuflect when he walks by. I looked up to his father, because his Lucius truly knew how to achieve his goals through cunning and manipulation. And if he was not able to achieve his goals through those means, he had the talent and the will to achieve his goals with his wand. His son, unfortunately, did not inherit his father's talents. A true Slytherin would have worked to gain Potter's trust—Draco merely insulted him, and continued to bait him whenever he could."

The Dark Lord looked back and forth between them, and while Snape remained impassive, Draco's eyes almost bulged from their sockets in affront. His reaction alone confirmed Snape's words, though his actions in the five years since he had arrived at Hogwarts had already performed that task admirably.

"Mr. Malfoy is improving, and I believe he will soon be a true credit to us," the Dark Lord said.

"By your tutelage, of course," Snape returned with a slight incline of his head. Privately, he doubted that Draco would ever be anything more than a brash, unintelligent hothead, regardless of who took him under his wing.

"And what of this morning?" the Dark Lord changed subjects, though the effect was somewhat abrupt and jarring, no doubt as he had intended. "You did not attempt to inform me of the fact that Dumbledore had cancelled Hogsmeade weekend."

"By the time I knew, it was already too late," Snape responded, glad that the discussion was moving to more comfortable territory. "Dumbledore announced it to the school at breakfast, and sealed the Great Hall, ensuring that no one could leave to send word, though I believe this was more aimed at the students. And as I was not informed of what was to occur today, I had no way of knowing before that today would be important."

"Are you questioning my decision to not inform you?"

"Of course not, My Lord," Snape replied smoothly. "It is understandable that you would keep it from me, given the situation. I am merely stating that there was no way I could have known in advance what was to happen. Of course, I am always alert for any information which would be of use to you. This morning there simply was no opportunity to contact you after I had been made aware of the situation."

The Dark Lord peered at him with some intensity for several moments before he gave a tight nod. "You are correct, or course, Severus. It is your ability to maintain control over yourself that makes you so useful to our cause—that and your close proximity to our esteemed Chief Warlock." This last was said with a sardonic sneer. "However, we must make certain to remember that although you are close to him, we would be foolish to believe that he trusts you implicitly. He is, as you have already pointed out, no fool, regardless of the foolishness of his beliefs."

"I agree fully, My Lord."

A tight nod met his words, after which the Dark Lord moved away and returned to the front of the room where he again faced the assembled Death Eaters. Snape wondered why the Dark Lord had singled him out. Was it because he did not know who this supposed traitor was, and hoped to provoke a response, or was the man somehow on to him? He was not certain how the Dark Lord could possibly have divined his true allegiances based on the events of the day, unless he had had suspicions before, and had simply put multiple pieces together. Damn Potter and his prophecy anyway! It made his role tougher than it ever had before.

"I promise you all that _I will_ ferret out the identity of our traitor, and I promise retribution for his betrayal of us all," the Dark Lord said after a moment's pause. "Remember that our cause is for the good of us all. We cannot accept failure, whether it is failure to act, or failure to accomplish our goals.

"Today, we were ultimately unsuccessful, but I promise you that soon we will prevail. I have a plan which will see us knocking down the very gates of Hogwarts and the Ministry itself. We will finally have that which is rightfully ours!"

The roar of approval which met his words was deafening, and one which Snape had not heard from a gathering of the Dark Lord's followers before. Malfoy and his ilk had tended to be more restrained in their responses, another thing which appeared to be changing in the Dark Lord's forces.

As the meeting broke up, the Dark Lord caught Snape's eye and nodded slightly, which Snape returned by inclining his head, while releasing an inward sigh of relief. The Dark Lord still trusted him.

* * *

For all that an important engagement had been fought only hours before, the village of Hogsmeade appeared to be none the worse for wear. There were, perhaps, a few locations where spell damage could be seen, especially in the area where the werewolves had been subdued, but as the giants had all been put down outside the outskirts of the village, it had escaped the damage that they would have unleashed upon it. And the Death Eater rout against the disguised Aurors had occurred toward the path to Hogwarts, and as such, there was little damage in that end of town as well. All in all, it was a total victory, and one which had been desperately needed, for morale, if nothing else.

Unfortunately, what Amelia was still uncertain of, was what manner in which Dumbledore had been able to gain the intelligence necessary to thwart the attack. In his typical vague and secretive manner, the Headmaster had put off any and all questions of the matter, insisting that he had sources which would be able to bring them this information from time to time, though he was careful to point out that it was by no means to be relied upon to give them information on all of Voldemort's operations.

Amelia was not blind—the information she had pointed to Dumbledore having a mole within the Dark Lord's organization, and given the close proximity of a certain potions professor, Amelia was certain she knew who it was. What she did not know was why Dumbledore had not come forward with such a valuable source of information before, so that they may use it to predict and repulse the Death Eater attacks. But even in that, the Headmaster was infuriatingly vague.

"I'm sorry, Minister, but I cannot say any more than I already have," he stated in that infuriating mild tone of his. "I do have information available to me at times, but we must use it judiciously. If Voldemort become aware of this source, he would quickly move to cut it off, or even worse, simply begin feeding us disinformation in return."

Amelia ignored his subsequent words and focused on his refusal to share his source. "Cannot or will not?"

"Both, I suppose," Dumbledore replied, seemingly impervious to her displeasure.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Amelia glared at him. "Need I remind you that Voldemort is attempting to drive us to our knees with these constant attacks? If you have information, you must make it available to us so that we can repel him."

"Again, Amelia, I am not withholding anything from you that can help save lives. The information is not always available, and cannot always be trusted. I approach you whenever I have something that I deem reliable, and that is of sufficient importance. Other than that, I cannot give you anything further. Trust me—I have as much desire to see Voldemort finally defeated as you do."

"At least allow Kingsley to interrogate Professor Snape. We need to be certain that he is on our side."

Dumbledore's countenance darkened with displeasure. "Who said this information came from Professor Snape? In fact, I can assure you the intelligence about today's attack did not come from the professor. I would not expect Voldemort to share operational information—especially that involving a location so close to Hogwarts—with the professor, who is, after all, so close to me."

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Amelia retorted, "So you have another source?" And then when Dumbledore made to protest, Amelia cut him off. "I am aware of the professor's _former_ allegiances, as you well know. I _was there_ for the Death Eater trials at the end of the first war. I'm merely surprised that you have been able to subvert another Death Eater. In fact, I wonder that Voldemort has not recognized the viper positioned so close to him."

"In that, I think the Dark Lord is afflicted with overconfidence," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "He is far too arrogant to think that anyone could go against him."

"You have not answered my question."

"And I will not. The story is not mine to share." Dumbledore turned back to the town and watched the clean up crews as they removed the bodies of the werewolves who had died in the battle. "I can tell you that today's source will not be repeated. You may consider it as a one-time piece of intelligence which we were fortunate to intercept. As for anything else, you can be certain that I will bring you _anything at all_ which is of any import. I cannot tell you anything further."

Though Amelia was still annoyed by his continued refusal, she allowed the matter to drop. She _was_ the Minister, but he was a venerable hero several times over—if he wanted to keep his secrets, then he would certainly do so. It was disappointing to learn that there would not be another repeat of that intelligence they received about the day's attack, but Amelia was philosophical about that—it was better they had had the information that one time, rather than have the students set upon by Death Eaters.

"We at least appear to have their full attention," Amelia said a few moments later. "Reports of Muggle baiting are almost nonexistent, though their attacks on Wizarding targets are much higher than the first war."

"Whatever else he is, Voldemort is not stupid," Dumbledore replied. "Such attacks in the first war were more to force us to respond and expend resources obliviating Muggles, among other things. But Voldemort has lived in the Muggle world, and he knows that the magical world cannot challenge the Muggles head on. It is not prudent for him to force the discovery of the Wizarding world at this point, or the Muggles might rise up against him before he is able to put whatever plans he has into place."

"So you think he is keeping tighter control over his forces this time?"

"I do," Dumbledore confirmed. "His plans may eventually include taking over the Muggle world by stealth, but his first goal must be to defeat us. _That_ is where he is expending the bulk of his energy."

It made sense, though it did not really help Amelia at present. It was good that they did not have to deal with Death Eater depredations on the Muggle world, but the continued attacks were such that any benefit they might have felt was swallowed up in the increased attacks against the magical world.

"I do not need to tell you that we cannot afford to have this fight drag on indefinitely," she said, turning to face Dumbledore. It would not hurt the man to understand that her will was as implacable as his own. "If you have any information at all that will help us, I expect you to share it immediately."

"As I will," Dumbledore agreed. "You must admit that I did so in this situation, did I not? I am as much concerned for the lives of the people as you are, Amelia. I will do whatever it takes to ensure the Dark Lord is defeated."

"I know you will," Amelia said, softening her stance a little. She was a little peeved that he would not give her further information, but she knew that he was fully committed to fighting the darkness. He had proved that time and time again over the course of his life.

A few moments of exchanging a little more information, and Amelia parted from him, returning with her ever-present pair of guards to the Ministry. As she sat down again in her chair, she reflected that the atmosphere of this conflict was very different from what it had been during the first war. Then, the pressure had been steady, and had eroded their resistance a little at a time. Now, however, it was like a tidal wave, threatening to engulf them and drown them if a bulwark was not built to prevent its encroachment. The Dark Lord needed to be defeated, and quickly.

* * *

To be completely honest, the last thing that Harry wanted to do was to further discuss the subject of horcruxes. They were foul, evil, and the instruments which would lead to his ultimate death, and this continual need to talk about them was wearing on Harry's equilibrium.

But he knew that it was necessary. As the matter of the acceptable vessel for horcrux creation had caught them all by surprise, much of Dumbledore's work into discovering the location, and the exact artifacts that Voldemort had used were largely now irrelevant. The only thing it was now useful for was in determining if there had been anyone close enough to the scene of the murder to have accepted the soul shard and become a horcrux. Unfortunately, determining that was almost an impossible task.

So Harry trudged up to the Headmaster's office in the company of Fleur and Hermione, grateful that at least he was to be engaged in something other than brooding. The subject matter was not anything but detestable, but at least he had something with which to occupy his mind. When they entered, they were greeted by the others who had already assembled, though contrary to last time, Tonks was missing, presumably because she had Auror responsibilities which demanded her attention.

"Thank you all for coming," Dumbledore opened the discussion without any delay. "As you are all aware, Remus has discovered that only a living being may become a horcrux. We must determine as best we can, therefore, how many horcruxes actually exist."

Pausing, the Headmaster turned to Remus. "I understand that in addition to the horcrux detection spell, you found another spell which will discover if a person has an active horcrux?"

Remus gave a tight nod. "If you will allow me?"

When Dumbledore agreed, Remus raised his wand and pointed it at the Headmaster. _"Sectilis Anima Manufesto!_"

The spell hit Dumbledore and, the same as the last time Moony had tried one of the spells he had learned in Egypt, and once again he glowed white, and the light faded after a few moments.

"That spell means 'show divided soul.' It is easy to see what happens when the soul hits a person who does not have an active horcrux." He paused and looked around the room. "Unfortunately, the records were somewhat ambiguous when it came to describing what would happen if a person _does_ have an active horcrux. All that we could make out was that it had something to do with lines, but it was only a fragment which survived, and it was far from clear."

"It seems to me that it would be very difficult to get Voldemort into a position where we can cast it on him," Harry observed.

"Not only that," Remus replied, "but the spell requires only a small amount of power, and as such, it is absurdly easy to block. If we were to try to cast it on him he could block it without much thought, and if he overheard the incantation, he would undoubtedly understand the significance. That makes it extremely risky to do so without the proper safeguards in place."

Dumbledore gave a tight nod. "He would undoubtedly realize that we are onto his secret of horcruxes, and wonder what we have discovered that he has not. Do you think he would be able to find more than what he has already found?"

"I doubt it," Remus said with a shake his head. "The Society has been removing references to horcruxes for centuries. I doubt there's much left anywhere, let alone something that would tell him exactly what horcruxes are."

"He did find the instructions to create them, somewhere," Jean-Sebastian pointed out.

"Granted," Remus replied.

"I suspect his source might have been found in the chamber," Dumbledore added. "I have no proof beyond conjecture of this, but it seems the most likely. Salazar Slytherin was a rather unsavory sort, and though he might not have stooped low enough to make one himself, it would not have been out of character for him to have possessed such knowledge."  
"It's always possible," Remus conceded. "Regardless, unless Voldemort manages to come across some long-forgotten cache of information, it's highly unlikely he would ever learn anything else about them."

"Could he penetrate the society's defenses?" Sirius asked.

Remus pursed his lips. "Not if he doesn't know about them. If he knew about them, he might be able to. Their greatest weapon, though, is secrecy."

"Then I suggest we get down to the true purpose for this meeting," Dumbledore interjected, focusing the attention of the group back on the task at hand. "There are primarily two items that I wish to discuss today: first, I will share with you my suspicions about the objects Voldemort was intending to make into horcruxes, and second, we need to figure out what happened down in the chamber in Harry's second year.

"Now, I have spent years tracking Voldemort's movements and attempting to discover his secrets. I have managed to obtain many memories of those with whom he interacted, and I am using those to try to ascertain what he used, when he attempted to make them, and where he has hidden them."

"How long have you suspected he used horcruxes?" Harry asked.

"The horcrux specifically, only since your confrontation with the basilisk," Dumbledore replied with a grandfatherly smile. "I knew that he had boasted of having cheated death for some time before his fall, and I began to search for means which would allow a wizard to accomplish that feat. There are a few which could be said to enable one to 'cheat death.' As I researched, I began to narrow the field down, as it were, but it was your description of the way the horcrux interacted with you in the chamber which truly excited my suspicions." Dumbledore paused his recitation for a moment, before, seeming to come to a resolution, he looked again at Harry. "I will not tell you what source I was operating from, but it suggested that a horcrux could become corporeal in a spiritual sense. It was obviously wrong, given what we have discovered since, but that was the event that convinced me we were dealing with at least one horcrux. His appearance in your fourth year told me that it was more than one."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and his eyes closed as he thought. "You have to know Tom Riddle to even begin to understand his character. He grew up in an orphanage it is true, and yet, he has a sense of arrogance about him of a greater magnitude than in anyone else I have ever met. When I first met him I sensed a… not precisely a darkness, but an anger at the world and a sense of entitlement."

Opening his eyes, Dumbledore looked at everyone in the room in turn. "I assume that you all know something of his past, since I have told Harry to a certain extent." Harry nodded to indicate that he had passed on some of what he knew. "Very well. In brief, then, he was born to a Pureblood woman who was uneducated and downtrodden, and who was left to fend for herself as her father and brother had been sent to Azkaban. She ensnared a local Muggle with love potion, but he left her when she stopped giving it to him. She only lived long enough to give birth to him before she died. Thus, he grew up in an orphanage, teased and bullied by those about him.

"In fact, his mother's name was Merope Gaunt, and she was a directed descendent of Salazar Slytherin, though a minor line. It is also the only line of Slytherin's left in the world today.

"However, as he aged, Tom Riddle discovered and learned to control his powers to a certain extent, and used them against those who bullied him. It was not long before they left him strictly alone, not wishing to provoke his displeasure.

"As I said before, he has a sense of arrogance unlike any I've seen before. The diary which we discussed earlier was the first of his intended horcruxes and it was made when Myrtle was killed by the basilisk at his instigation."

Harry gasped. "Moaning Myrtle?"

"The same," the Headmaster confirmed. "This was the only horcrux he made with a commonplace item, though it was of great personal significance to him. From what I have been able to determine, he sought other artifacts of much higher significance and historical value with which to make his other horcruxes."

Harry was not precisely surprised. The Riddle he had met in the chamber had been handsome, but inordinately pleased with himself, and Voldemort in the graveyard had been supremely confident, believing in his own infallibility and his right to do whatever he desired. He was exactly the type of person to wish to rub his "immortality" in the faces of his enemies and the world in general.

"He was able to discover that he was the heir of Slytherin, and as he considered Slytherin to be the greatest of the founders, he naturally expanded that to mean that he was therefore the heir of _all_ the founders. And as such, he considered the founders artifacts to be his own property."

"He used artifacts from the founders to make his horcruxes," Sirius said flatly.

"I believe so. I have discovered what some of these artifacts are, though not all as of yet. There is a ring, belonging to Slytherin, which was in the possession of his grandfather. In fact, I have come close to tracking that one down, though I suppose it is now of no use to us."

"Perhaps not," Remus interjected, "but failed horcruxes are dangerous in their own right. It might not be an immediate concern, but we should track them down eventually, if only to prevent someone from finding and being hurt by them.

Inclining his head, Dumbledore continued with the explanation. "Other than the ring, I suspect that he used a locket which was owned by Slytherin, which leaves us with three. There was also a cup owned by Helga Hufflepuff which was stolen from a collector many years ago. The collector was murdered, and I believe that he attempted to make a horcrux from her death. Of the fifth horcrux I have not been able to uncover anything. The sixth, given what Remus has revealed, would be his familiar, Nagini. I suspect that she was the only one he created successfully as intended."

"But Professor," Hermione interrupted, "that would make seven horcruxes with Harry."

"Isn't that how many you said he created?" Harry asked, confused.

"Actually, Miss Granger is correct," the Headmaster replied. "He had intended to create six to go along with the soul currently residing in his body, for a total of seven separate pieces.

"Of course, you must recall that he has no knowledge of Harry being a horcrux," Dumbledore continued. "He had five before that night in 1981, and I suspect that he intended to make another with Harry's death."

The suggestion chilled Harry to the core. The Dark Lord had intended to make himself immortal with _Harry's_ death. But instead, whatever Harry's mother had done had thwarted his ambitions, rendering him a disembodied spirit, and _Harry_ had _become_ the horcrux. Harry idly wondered if his parents were looking down on him and if his mother was looking on with horror at what her actions had wrought. Of course he could never blame her, though given his own disposition, he could understand why another might blame themselves over what had happened.

"Therefore, even if he had succeeded, he would never have had more than six active horcruxes, as Nagini is a new creation—only in the past year or so did he make her into a horcrux."

"Does that mean he will then try to make another?" Hermione asked, and by her expression, fearing the answer. "He thinks he only has five, so wouldn't another one be necessary?"

"It is difficult to say," Dumbledore replied. "Remember, he has an imperfect understanding of the nature of the soul. It is possible that he does not think that he can safely split his soul again, considering how he _thinks_ he has already done it six times."

"Another thing we can be grateful for," Remus muttered.

"Indeed," Dumbledore replied.

"But how did I even become a horcrux?" Harry demanded.

It was Remus who provided the answer, such as it was. "You must understand that this is all guesswork, but my guess would be that he had already completed the ritual necessary to allow a portion of his soul to be withdrawn when he arrived at your house. The murder of your father provided the act which split his soul, and as you know, the soul fragment will always try to find a host if the intended vessel is unsuitable. When the piece of soul was extracted, it searched for a host and found one—you."

Fleur looked at Remus, her expression quizzical. "Would the soul piece specifically have chosen Harry?"

With a shrug, Remus said, "It's really academic at this point. It could be that it would simply have taken whoever was closer. If it had latched on to Lily, then it would have been destroyed with her death, and Harry would not have to deal with being a horcrux. The true question is this: was anyone else made into a horcrux when Voldemort attempted to make his other horcruxes."

All eyes turned to Dumbledore, and he chuckled slightly. "Although I would wish to have all the answers, I must admit that I do not. The murder which allowed the creation of Nagini as a horcrux is obviously irrelevant, as the snake would have been an acceptable vessel. I do know that when Hepzibah Smith was murdered for Hufflepuff's cup, that she was alone in the house.

"The ironic part of his killing of his father is that he killed his grandparents at the same time. The father's death would have freed the soul shard, which may have taken refuge in one of his grandparents, who were themselves then immediately murdered. The true question, I suppose, is how close a person has to be in order to attract the piece of spirit."

"It is not clearly documented," Remus replied. "All that is known is that it cannot be far. However, we know that Harry's father was killed, which would have allowed for the piece of spirit to be removed, and since Harry was upstairs in the cottage at the time, we know that the soul piece can at least move that far. But that is likely the extent of its range."

"Then if the murders were done in secret," Jean-Sebastian said, "we might be dealing with quite a few less than we thought, or he had wanted."

"There must be at least two, outside of whatever happened with the basilisk, which we will discuss later." Dumbledore ticked off a finger as he listed each one. "When Harry and his parents were attacked, I believe Voldemort had intended to make one. I do not know what object he had thought to insert his soul into, as I did not see anything out of the ordinary in the house, but however that may be, it is now irrefutable that Harry became one of his horcruxes. I am also reasonably certain that Nagini was made into a horcrux. The snake seems to be far more intelligent and he has far more control over it than one would expect of a normal familiar."

"Like I have any control over Hedwig," Harry mumbled.

Dumbledore smiled at him with true amusement reflected in the twinkling of his eyes. "Nor should you, Harry. Our familiars are more than just servants at our beck and call. They are true partners with minds of their own. They want the best for us, and what _they_ believe to be the best, does not always agree with our own opinion."

He turned and smiled at Fawkes, who was sitting on his perch watching the proceedings. The phoenix trilled in response to Dumbledore's praise, before settling once again on his perch, though his attention never wavered from the rest of the room. That brief burst of phoenix song, however, did its work in providing a boost to the feelings of those in the room. Fawkes truly was a wondrous creature.

"Regardless," Dumbledore continued, "a true relationship with a familiar is not characterized by a level of control over one's familiar, but rather by the closeness which exists between the two. This may manifest itself in the familiar knowing and understanding your moods, being aware of your needs and desires, knowing what you wish when you ask something of it, and by a myriad of other ways. Have you ever found that Hedwig was close by in a situation where you needed her assistance? To carry a letter, perhaps?"

"She's shown up before I even have the letter written," Harry replied.

"Exactly!" the Headmaster enthused. "That is the familiar bond at its finest.

"By contrast, Voldemort appears—from the admittedly sporadic reports I have had on his interactions with Nagini—to be able to direct his familiar's behavior. I suspect that this is because the snake is a horcrux, though I admit that I cannot prove it."

"I believe we should operate under that assumption," Jean-Sebastian broke in, to the murmured agreement of everyone else in the room. "Your guesses are more often than not more factual than actual facts possessed by most others."

"You flatter me, Jean-Sebastian," Dumbledore replied, inclining his head. "But I thank you nonetheless."

A momentary silence fell as they all considered the import of Dumbledore's words. The snake would be difficult to get at—it was generally close to Voldemort, though Harry understood that it would sometimes patrol for him, and it was almost always allowed to leave Voldemort's lair to hunt for its food. And if it was influenced by a soul shard, then it was undoubtedly stronger and faster, making it an extremely dangerous beast indeed.

"So, we assume that there are two for now?" Sirius spoke into the silence.

"From what we know," Dumbledore agreed. "It seems apparent that there may be as many as two more, depending on exactly how the murders for the final two intended horcruxes were committed. I suspect that if those murders were committed in secret, there may not be any more at all.

"The only other matter to consider is that we have not yet discussed the basilisk incident."

Those ominous words cast Harry's thoughts back to that fateful day, the horror and the desperation of the struggle against the giant snake. He would be very happy if he never had to go through something like that again!

"The diary might not have been a horcrux," Harry said in a tone which brooked no opposition, "but there was definitely something going on there. I spoke with a shade of Riddle—it's how I learned his name."

"Could you have hallucinated it?" Remus asked. "As I recall, you were bitten by the basilisk, weren't you?"

"Yes, but I spoke with him long before I was bitten," Harry insisted. "And besides, if I had been seeing things, how did he tell me of his history, and how would I have learned his name? No, something was definitely there."

"If the diary was not a horcrux, then how could Riddle's soul have been there?" Hermione asked.

"I believe you are all missing the most obvious answer," Dumbledore interjected with a knowing smile directed at them all. When no one spoke up, Dumbledore elaborated. "Riddle created his first horcrux with the murder of Moaning Myrtle. Myrtle was killed by the gaze of a basilisk."

"The basilisk was the horcrux!" Remus exclaimed.

"I do believe so," was the Headmaster's reply.

Remus shook his head in wonder. "It's so obvious. How could I have missed that?"

"Sometimes the most obvious answers are those which are the most difficult to find."

It was a piece of sage wisdom Harry would have expected to come from the ancient wizard. But it still did not explain everything.

"Then why did Riddle's shade appear?" he demanded. "Or does this happen with every animal horcrux?"

"There was no mention of it in the records," Remus replied with a frown.

"I expect this is not a normal occurrence," Dumbledore stated. "I have given this some thought, and I believe that I may have an explanation of sorts, though I must stress that it is speculation.

"First, it seems unlikely that anyone has ever made any horcruxes of thousand-year-old basilisks, or any other creature possessing such power, for rather obvious reasons. Thus, I believe that the basilisk may have been somewhat unique as horcruxes go.

"Now, I believe, Remus, that you said items which were _intended_ to be horcruxes are affected to a certain extent?" Remus nodded his head, seeming intrigued with where Dumbledore was going with this speculation. "I would postulate then, that there was a connection of sorts between the true horcrux—the basilisk—and the intended horcrux—the diary—which allowed the horcrux in the basilisk to control Ginevra Weasley."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Remus protested. "Surely if such a thing was possible, the records would have mentioned it."

"Ah, but as I said before, I doubt that so powerful a creature as an ancient basilisk has ever been made into a horcrux before."

Jean-Sebastian gazed at the Headmaster with some speculation. "You suspect that the basilisk's magic was able to provide the horcrux with the power to do this?"

"Yes," was Dumbledore's reply. "The diary was more than a simple diary and less than a horcrux. My suspicion is that the fact that it was supposed to house the piece of soul which eventually went to the basilisk formed a sort of connection to it from the actual soul shard. In this manner, it was able to reach out and influence Miss Weasley when the diary was finally brought into its range, show itself in a spiritual form and interact with you. When the basilisk subsequently died, it lost the ability to do so as it was vanquished along with the snake."

A positively ill feeling stole over Harry. "Riddle's shade bragged about being able to return," he said with some trepidation. "Could he have done it by sucking out Ginny's soul or something? There could have been two Riddles walking around."

"Though I can see why that would be horrific," Remus hastened to reply, "it is impossible. First, remember what we spoke of last time; a horcrux maker can return to life through a ritual to create a counterfeit body, or through following the connection back to a human horcrux. No other way exists.

"Beyond that, a soul is by its very nature, a singular entity, regardless of the ability to separate small portions of it; even if they do not reside in the body, the soul pieces which are attached to horcruxes are still part of the soul. The return of a man to life necessitates the presence of the main part of the soul—without it, the person cannot return to life. And there certainly cannot be more than one entity of a person in existence."

Harry considered what Remus said and had to admit that he was undoubtedly correct. It made sense, after all, though he was well aware that to a certain extent, the horcrux in and of itself defied sense. However, something still did not fit, though he was not able to put his finger on it. Something to do with the way the horcrux had been destroyed and how the shade had disappeared after. And the way it had…

Eyes shooting up, Harry looked intently at Remus. "What happens when a horcrux is killed?"

Though he appeared taken aback by Harry's suddenly intense stare, Remus ventured to make a response. "If a human is a horcrux, then the soul piece dies with it. The soul piece is too integrated in with the soul of the horcrux to survive its host's death."

"And an animal?"

"The same thing that happens when an unsuitable item is intended to be a horcrux," Remus replied, frowning in thought. "The connection is severed between the horcrux and the soul piece, and it searches for a new host."

An awful certainty filled Harry, and though he hesitated to voice his suspicions—a part of him cried out against even considering such a thing—there was no choice. One final thing needed to be clarified.

"Can the soul piece join another soul piece in an existing horcrux?"

Remus opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it abruptly. His eyes lost focus and he considered the matter for several moments, until, eventually, he looked back at Harry, his expression tentative.

"I don't know, Harry," he said quietly. "My suspicion is no, but I have no proof. An existing horcrux is already a subjugated soul, and I would think that another soul piece would reject it as unsuitable."

His fears crystallized in his mind, Harry forced himself to look up at Dumbledore. "Ginny Weasley was there," he forced out. "She was the only other one close enough. I think she's a horcrux."

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Continued thanks to everyone still following _Heart and Soul_. With this chapter, we are officially into the final quarter of this work!

2. So did anyone see that bit about Ginny coming? I'm interested to hear your comments. The aftermath will follow in the next chapter which will be next week, and you'll see if Harry's conjecture is correct.

3. I need to leave a bit of information about the status of certain things. If you read last week's post, you'll know that I was about to publish a book. It went up for sale on Monday of last week, and the Kindle version followed a couple of days later. As you can likely guess, I'm pretty excited about it, and though it's only been available for a week or so, the initial sales are very encouraging.

Because of all the editing and proofing I was doing on it, for several weeks I got very little writing done on _Heart and Soul_, though I am still about 8 chapters ahead. That's not really the problem. The problem is that as I'm now a published author, writing fan fiction has now gotten a little dicier.

Part of me says that I should move on to projects which can eventually help me reach my long-term goal—to become a full time author. This one, obviously, cannot. However, I started this blasted story, and I be damned if I don't finish it! I've promised many times that I would finish it, and I reiterate that promise here—you can expect a weekly posting (as long as I am able to keep ahead of the writing and nothing comes up) until the story is finished. However, given that I'm moving on to another stage in my writing career, I can state with a certainty that this will be my fan fiction swan song. I have pieces of other stories which I may end up posting just for interest sake, but this is the last fan fiction I will actively write.

But I would be remiss if I did not express my heartfelt thanks, not only for those who read, comment, encourage, and appreciate my writing, but also for authors such as George Lucas and J K Rowling, who created such wonderful worlds and allow the rest of us to play with them. Fan fiction has never put a penny into my pocket, but its worth has transcended any monetary value, as it has given me the opportunity to hone my craft and get my works out for others to see and read critically. It has also helped build a fire in me—a love of writing, that to be honest, I didn't have before I started writing fan fiction. What was a hobby, has become a passion, and for that, the hours that I have put into writing stories such as this one, have been hours well spent.

Thank you to you all, and I look forward to hearing your comments!


	62. Chapter 61 – Another Horcrux

**Previously: **Snape is summoned to the Dark Lord, where Voldemort holds a meeting with his entire following. Voldemort challenges Snape's loyalty, but is appeased. Amelia asks Dumbledore to reveal his source for the warning of the attack on Hogsmeade, but Dumbledore refuses. The group gathers again to discuss the horcrux question. They discuss possible explanations, they decide that the basilisk was a horcrux, and that the soul shard must have fled to Ginny when the basilisk died.

* * *

**Chapter 61 – Another Horcrux**

A sudden silence fell over the room, and for the briefest of moments, Harry thought that those who were with him would protest even the suggestion of such a thing. For Harry, though, the more he thought about the situation, the more he knew it had to be true. Whether Dumbledore's speculation of how the horcrux had controlled Ginny was accurate was at this point rather irrelevant. The fact of the matter was that Harry was certain that she was a horcrux—all that was required was to have her summoned so that they could confirm it.

In particular, Harry watched Dumbledore. At the moment Harry made his declaration, Dumbledore had been surprised as anyone in the office. Quickly, however, a thoughtful and then a calculating expression had appeared on his, quickly followed by one of understanding and then sad resignation. It was a few moments later that he turned to Remus, who was appearing somewhat shell-shocked.

"You are our expert, Remus. Is it possible?"

Remus took a deep shuddering breath and blew it out loudly, an act which seemed to relieve some of the sudden tension which had fallen over the room. "It's not only possible," he muttered, "but I wonder why I didn't think of it myself."

"Perhaps none of us wanted to consider it," Jean-Sebastian interjected into the conversation. "Before we do something drastic such as calling Miss Weasley into the room, I believe we had best be as certain as we can. We don't want to frighten the girl to death, after all."

Murmurs of agreement echoed throughout the inhabitants of the room. "In that case," Jean-Sebastian continued, "let's go over this from the beginning."

Turning, Jean-Sebastian looked Harry in the eye. "I know you have told this story many times, Harry, but I need you to go back over it and tell us what happened as well as you can remember it. Particularly, we need to know in what order events proceed so that we can figure out what has happened."

Privately Harry thought like the exercise was something of a waste. It was known, for example, that the basilisk must have been the horcrux—how else would the shade of Riddle have appeared and been able to talk to him? And when the snake had died the only other one in the area had been Ginny. Well, aside from Lockhart and Ron, but they had been much too far down the tunnel on the other side of the cave in, and surely the horcrux would have gone to the nearest possible host. Harry did not see any other possibility.

But he was aware of the importance of being sure, and he knew he did not wish to frighten Ginny needlessly, so he agreed and began telling his story, from the time in which the basilisk had been slain, rather than everything else which had occurred before.

When he finished, Jean-Sebastian looked at Dumbledore. "So, from what Harry has told us, it sounds like the event which caused Riddle's shade to disappear, was when he destroyed the diary. In light of that, your conjecture of the soul shard using the diary to control Miss Weasley seems to be upheld."

"It appears to be so," Dumbledore murmured.

"But Harry had already killed the basilisk!" Remus protested. "When the host was killed the soul shard should have immediately abandoned the dead body and sought a new host."

"Does the new host have to be human?" Sirius asked.

Remus shrugged. "A human would always be preferred. Like attracts like. But if Ginny had not been in the chamber then the soul shard could have utilized Fawkes, for example, as another parasitic host."

"I believe that is irrelevant," the Headmaster intoned. "There _was no other_ suitable creature nearby as it sounds like at that moment, even Fawkes might have been too far away, so the soul shard had no other choice but to go to Miss Weasley. Besides," Dumbledore continued, looking at Remus, "who can say that the basilisk died instantly? Do we know exactly when the soul shard can no longer be sustained by the host?"

Grimacing, Remus shook his head. "Al we know is that when the host dies, it seeks a new one or perishes."

"The basilisk may not have died immediately then," said Jean-Sebastian. "It may not have died for a few moments after."

"It is also possible that the soul shard did not fully integrate with Miss Weasley upon being freed from the basilisk," Dumbledore added. "It may have kept some part from being submerged in her soul, and since the connection to the diary still existed, it continued speak with Harry until that connection was severed."

"That is less likely," was Remus's firm reply. "I don't think there is a choice in the matter. A soul shard is dispersed into a human horcrux—that is just the way it is."

"Very well," said Dumbledore, conceding the point.

"Harry, you said Riddle disappeared after you destroyed the diary," Jean-Sebastian said. "Can you explain it exactly?"

Thoughtfully, Harry recalled the events of the chamber. "It's hard to say," he said slowly. "I was already being affected by the venom, and my memory is not very clear. When I stabbed the diary, Riddle's shade screamed and he disintegrated. But since it was like a spiritual manifestation, I can't be sure that it was destroyed."

"I think at this point we can assume it was _not_ destroyed," Jean-Sebastian returned, "though perhaps it can be stated that his _physical manifestation_ was destroyed." He turned his gaze to everyone in the office, before stopping on Dumbledore. "I suspect that Harry's speculation is true. Regardless, we need to call Miss Weasley in here to confirm. We may never know exactly how occurred, it seems to me that we know enough to at least investigate."

Dumbledore nodded. "I agree. We need to test her to make certain." He then turned to Hermione. "Miss Granger, I believe that Miss Weasley is a friend of yours. Can you summon her to attend us please? I believe it would be much less alarming than if I were to send a house-elf for example."

"Of course," Hermione replied, and she rose and left the office.

Once again, silence descended upon those who were gathered together. And though Harry was almost certain that his supposition was true, a large part of him hoped that he was incorrect. He knew first hand, after all, exactly what a burden the knowledge was, and he wished for anything rather than for another to be weighed down by it all.

On the other hand, he began to be angry: angry at Voldemort for attempting to make such disgusting items, angry at the way nothing good ever seemed to last in his life, angry that Ginny would now be dealing with it too, and even anger at himself for killing the basilisk and allowing this to happen. He knew, of course, that there was no way that he could be considered culpable in the matter—if he had not killed the basilisk, it may have gone on, killing others, causing havoc, and eventually the spirit of Riddle might have been brought on the scene and been brought back to life. That was indisputable. But it was also a fact that he had—unwittingly—slain one horcrux, only to allow the disgusting soul shard to latch on to another. And that did not sit right with him.

"Harry," Fleur said quietly from his side.

He turned to look at her and notice her earnest gaze and the way her eyes held a hint of compassion. She smiled lightly while taking his hand in hers.

"You're not blaming yourself for this, are you?"

Harry released a long breath. "Not really. I will admit a part of me does feel like I'm to blame." He waved her off when she appeared like she wanted to say something. "I know that I'm not. But it's inarguable that Ginny might be a horcrux now because I killed the previous horcrux."

"She would have died if you hadn't."

"I know," was all Harry could bring himself to say in reply. "But that doesn't make it easier to deal with."

Closing his eyes, Harry fought back the tears that suddenly appeared, ready to be shed. "I hope I'm wrong, Fleur," he said, carefully modulating his voice. "I know you try but… I don't think… I'm not sure anyone can understand what a… a horrible burden it is."

Eyes shining with compassion, Fleur leaned over and put her arm around him. "I don't understand exactly what you are going through, Harry, but don't ever think that I am not aware of how much this is affecting you."

"We _all_ understand, Harry," Sirius said as he reached across and put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "We're all with you and we want to support you. You don't need to walk this path alone."

Allowing a wan smile to come over his face, Harry nodded at his godfather. "I know, Sirius. And I'm grateful for all of you."  
"Just don't shut us out, Harry," Jean-Sebastian said. "We all want to be there for you."

Harry smiled and returned to his contemplation. The support of such wonderful people was truly appreciated, and Harry knew that without it he would be lost at sea without any hope of seeing land again. But in another corner of his mind, he also knew that no matter how much they supported and empathized with him, that they could not truly comprehend the pressure and burden this situation with the horcrux put on him. But it was what it was, and it could not be changed. He could hope that his suspicion was wrong. He would prefer to be the only one who had to live with the death sentence.

* * *

When Hermione told her of the summons to Dumbledore's office, Ginny frowned. What could the Headmaster possibly want from her? Ginny was not Harry—she did not spend almost as much time in the Headmaster's office as she did in her dorm, chatting like old friends and discussing strategy, Voldemort, and anything else that came up. She was a simple school girl, though one who was involved in Harry's club and, she hoped, a friend of his. What could she offer which Harry already did not?

"What does he want?" Ginny asked, rising to her feet. She took a surreptitious glance around and noted that no one seemed to be paying her any attention, which was just as well. A summons to the Headmaster's office was not the sort of thing you wanted to be published to the world.

"Not sure," Hermione responded. "I just know that he needs to see you."

"Now?"

Hermione smiled. "You're not going in front of the firing squad, Ginny."

Ginny smiled back at her friend, but she could tell instinctively that something was wrong. Hermione was trying to put a good face on it, but underneath Ginny could sense a tension which she rarely detected in the other girl—or rather a tension which _did not_ have something to do with schoolwork or OWLs anyway. Frankly, it concerned Ginny.

However, it was equally obvious that though Hermione might know something, she was not inclined to share it, preferring instead to make whatever communication when they could not be overheard by anyone else. It was likely best that way anyway, as Ginny had already thought that she would like to avoid any overt attention. She therefore did the only thing she could—she thanked Hermione and began to walk toward the portrait hole.

This was, of course, when she received her next surprise.

"I'll go with you," Hermione stated, causing Ginny to stop and raise an eyebrow at her.

"Does Dumbledore need to see you too?"

This time the smile was even more forced. "I've been in his office for the last hour or so."

A little frustrated, Ginny turned and walked from the common room and stalked down the hallway for a few moments, when she rounded on her friend and shot her a commanding glare.

"What's going on, Hermione? You're scaring me with all this cloak and dagger stuff."

Sighing, Hermione took her arm and began directing her toward the Headmaster's office. "I'm sorry, Ginny, but I can't say anything more." She looked around and Ginny, almost unwillingly, copied her, only to see that no one else was in evidence. They appeared to be quite alone. "You'll find out as soon as we get there. Let's just say that something has come up concerning your adventures in your first year. We need to know a few things."

It was difficult for Ginny to avoid swallowing hard at the thought of the basilisk incident. She tried to avoid thinking about it whenever possible, and though the memories rarely gave her nightmares any longer, thoughts of it were still unpleasant. And now, apparently, Dumbledore wanted to dredge up these memories yet again, bring up events which she had longed to bury behind an impenetrable barrier, never to be released again.

She could do it, she decided with determination. She was a Gryffindor, after all, a house which prided itself on its courage in the face of fear. But Ginny, despite her bravado, could feel the pit settle in the bottom of her stomach like a lead block, and she knew that this would not be easy, regardless of what the Headmaster had to say to her.

Luckily, she did not have to deal with it for long, as the Headmaster's office soon came into view. Apparently they were expected, as the gargoyle guard stood silently to one side, though Ginny had the prickly feeling that the statue was watching her as she passed by. The spiral staircase was a novelty as it took them quickly to the top of the stairs, and once she was on the next level, she was able to lose herself for the moment in her interest in the Headmaster's surroundings. She had never been in the office before, and she was curious as to the paraphernalia with which such a famous man would surround himself.

Her sudden easiness of mind was quashed the moment she entered the office itself, as the sea of grim faces staring at her registered.

"Hello Miss Weasley," Dumbledore exerted himself to greet her with a pleasant and grandfatherly smile. "Thank you for joining us."

"What do you need me for?" Ginny blurted and then colored at the tactlessness of the question.

Dumbledore just smiled kindly at her, gesturing with his wand and motioning her to the chair which appeared in front of her. Idly, Ginny noted that the chair was next to Harry, and that there was an open one for Hermione next to it. "We have come into some information which we need to confirm. If you will indulge us for a moment?"

Not trusting herself to respond, Ginny nodded jerkily, and then took her seat, though she perched on the edge, as though ready to flee at the first sign of trouble; she could not even state with a certainty that she was not ready to bolt should the news be bad. She was then surprised when Professor Lupin, who she had not seen since he had left the school after he resigned his teaching post, raised his wand.

"I will need to cast a spell on you for a moment, Miss Weasley. With your permission, of course."

When Ginny nodded at him, Professor Lupin waved his wand at her in a complicated fashion, before releasing a spell, with the incantation, "_Extrarius Anima Manufesto!_" Ginny felt nothing upon impact, but she could immediately tell that there had been an effect, as she began to glow white. Quickly, however, the white glow began to darken, until soon it was a blood red in color, before it dissipated altogether.

If she had thought the expressions were grim before, they were positively morose as the effect of the spell registered on those in the room. What in the blazes was going on?

* * *

As the glow faded, Harry looked on stonily. They had found another horcrux. And yet it seemed to have come from the most unlikely source.

"Jean-Sebastian, if you would?" Dumbledore said, gesturing at the Floo.

Though it was obvious from the perplexed and slightly fearful expression Ginny was displaying that she did not have a clue what was going on, Jean-Sebastian immediately nodded and stepped into the Floo, heading for Grimmauld Place. No doubt the Headmaster thought it would be easier if the Weasleys were brought to the school by someone who was at least known to them, rather than just being summoned there via Floo call. Ginny was not stupid, however—Grimmauld Place was the location in which her parents were currently residing and as she began to put the pieces together, she turned to Harry, a wildness in her eyes that Harry had never been seen before.

"Harry, what's going on?" she asked, a frightened tone sounding in her voice.

"If you please, Miss Weasley," Dumbledore interjected, "we do not mean to frighten you." When Dumbledore spoke, it was as though his great number of years had all come to rest on his shoulders in the past few minutes. "I believe that the discussion we must have would be better if we only have it once. The Ambassador has gone to retrieve your parents—let us wait for the explanation until then, shall we?"

Ginny's flexing jaw muscle bespoke the fact that she would have much preferred to have demanded answers at that moment, but she controlled herself with seeming difficulty, and nodded her head.

Inside Harry was churning, a nauseating sensation which was forcing the bile up his throat, threatening to choke him with its foul taste. It had been hard enough to accept that fact that _he_ was a horcrux and that he was not fated to live. When it was just himself, he could console himself in the knowledge that if he were to sacrifice himself at the appropriate time, then Voldemort could be defeated. But with two—the other being his best mate's little sister no less!—the situation became inevitably more complicated. How they could now set up Voldemort's ultimate defeat, he was not certain, but he knew that it must be done for the world to be free from the yoke of the madman.

A white-hot rage filled him at the thought of the self-styled _Lord Voldemort_. The man destroyed everything he touched! And now he was destroying the life and happiness of someone Harry cared for very much. This scum was not to be tolerated!

In the corners of his mind, Harry knew that he would have to take care of the man sooner rather than later. Perhaps Voldemort was well hidden and his stronghold secure, but others were not. He would have to think it over—surely there would be a way to strike at him which would hurt him immeasurably. Turnabout was fair play—the man had caused more heartbreak in Harry's life—not to mention everyone else affected by him—and retribution was long overdue.

In the midst of his struggle to control his anger, Harry caught sight of a pale Ginny, and with an effort of willpower, he forced his anger to cool. There would be time enough to rail against Voldemort later. For now, they were facing a very difficult explanation, which would leave Ginny's life in tatters.

It was only a very few moments later when the Floo flare and out stepped Jean-Sebastian, followed by a bewildered Molly and Arthur Weasley. Dumbledore hastily conjured two chairs and they sat down, clearly wondering at their sudden summons, not to mention the composition of those who were gathered in the Headmaster's office. Clearly, whatever Jean-Sebastian had said to them, they were not expecting anything good to come of this conversation.

At once Dumbledore took control of the situation, addressing the newcomers with a kindly smile. "Molly, Arthur, thank you for joining us. I'm afraid that we have discovered an unfortunate consequence of Ginevra's experience with the basilisk in her first year."

"What is it, Albus?" Arthur asked, and though he was outwardly stoic, his dread was evident in the way he held himself under rigid control. It was so unlike the normally cheerful man that Harry felt that he almost did not know him.

"Unfortunately, it is not as simple as just telling you." Dumbledore gazed at the Weasleys sternly, though with evident compassion. "This knowledge is very dangerous, and is protected by a series of oaths which will prevent you from disclosing the knowledge to anyone. You must swear them before we can tell you anything."

"Oaths on our magic?" Arthur asked with a frown.

"Oaths on your lives," was Dumbledore's quiet reply. "This knowledge must not ever be revealed—far too much pain and suffering have already resulted, and the consequences could be immeasurable for the world at large if it were ever to become known."

Molly and Arthur exchanged a glance, both now clearly fearful of what they were about to be told. As Harry understood it, under normal circumstances an oath on one's magic was considered to be more solemn than an oath on one's life, because to lose one's magic—a part of oneself—was considered to be worse than dying. But the oath on a person's life was perhaps the deepest of all oaths. If a person's life was required to keep a secret, then it must be vital that it remain from the world.

"Very well," Arthur said, though Harry thought he knew the mild-mannered man well enough to know that he would prefer not to be burdened by such weighty subjects.

"Remus, if you please," Dumbledore said, turning to the Marauder.

By now the process of having the oaths sworn was familiar to Harry, and Remus was becoming quite proficient at extracting them in a quick and efficient manner. The nature of the oaths, once sworn, did not ease the Weasleys' concern once they knew what they entailed. It would undoubtedly be a long and emotional evening.

Once they had sworn, Dumbledore thanked Remus and turned back to Arthur. "There is no easy way to relate what I must to you, so I shall endeavor to be clear and concise as to what has happened. Please keep any questions you have until the explanation is complete—this will be difficult enough without frequent interruptions."

With that, Dumbledore launched into the story of the horcruxes, while Remus frequently added commentary and clarification to what the Headmaster was saying. For the most part, they left the discussion of the history of horcruxes alone, as it was truly unimportant to the situation at hand. Instead, Dumbledore covered what the horcruxes were intended to accomplish, followed by what they had originally thought of horcruxes, and finished with Remus and Tonks' journey to Egypt, and what they had discovered about their true nature. By the end of the explanation, Arthur was sitting forward with his face in his hands, the shock in his expression testament to the difficulty he was having in processing and accepting what he had been told, while Molly, her countenance white as newly fallen snow, stared unseeing into the distance while tears ran down her cheeks. The Weasley matron's restraint was actually somewhat of a surprise to Harry, as he would have thought her more inclined to loud demonstrations and active displays.

Ginny had turned and begun to weep quietly into Harry's shoulder as the explanation wound down, her body shaking with deep wracking sobs. Harry, as soon as she had turned to him in her distress, put an arm around her and held her to his chest, imparting what comfort he could. His own loves watched in sympathy as he did so, while not a hint of jealousy or discomfort at his physical closeness to the girl who had not-so-secretly harbored a crush for him was evident in their demeanors.

But though Harry attempted to provide comfort, in actuality he was not certain he was at all successful. The anger he had pushed away earlier had returned in full measure, and he was contemplating thoughts which he suspected would be looked upon with disapproval should anyone else in the room become aware of them. Harry burned with a cold fury and an almost physical need for vengeance against the madman who had engineered such misery.

"What can we do?" Arthur asked, though pulling himself together long enough to even ask that appeared to be an almost herculean effort.

"The soul shard cannot be removed," Remus replied, his voice colored with an apologetic diffidence.

"So do we just give up then?" Arthur demanded, raising his voice for perhaps the first time Harry ever remembered. "Are you asking us to sacrifice our only daughter for the defeat of V-V-Voldemort?"

Harry was certain that this was the first time that Arthur had ever spoken the Dark Lord's name out loud, but his anger and bewilderment clearly had given the man courage. Either that or he had worked himself up to the point where he did not even consider what he was saying, regardless of his stammering over the Dark Lord's name.

"Of course not, Arthur," Dumbledore soothed.

"Arthur," Molly spoke up, "this affects Harry too."

That took the wind out of Arthur's sails, and he turned to Harry appearing slightly chagrinned. "I'm sorry, Harry. This is just…"

"Believe me; I'm well aware of how much of a shock this is," said Harry, brushing off the man's apology."

A smile which went no further than his lips flitted over Arthur's face, and he nodded at Harry, partially in acknowledgement for the absolution, and partially, Harry thought, for how he was comforting Ginny.

"Perhaps you have heard me harping on the subject before, Arthur," Dumbledore spoke again, "but I believe that every magic can be undone, if we can only discover how. It just takes a little ingenuity to discover it at times.

"I _can_ tell you that I will not give up on this. Not only does it affect Harry, who, as you know, I hold in much personal esteem, but also because sacrificing two wonderful young people is truly unconscionable. We will find an answer—this I assure you."

"How are you holding up, Harry?" Molly asked. And although a trace of the familiar mothering Molly Weasley could certainly be seen in her demeanor, she was also clearly concerned for _him_. Her care warmed him and told him that whatever difficulties they had had between them over the past few months, he still craved her acceptance and affection.

"I've had time to get used to it," Harry replied simply, trying to deflect her concern.

The look she gave him was anything but appeased.

"That's our Harry," Hermione interjected with a fond smile. "His rote answer is, 'I'm fine.'"

"Maybe, but unfortunately in this situation, it's really the only answer I have to give." Feeling a need to explain himself, or perhaps be granted absolution for the part he had played in Ginny's tragedy, Harry paused for a moment, before speaking again. "I'm sorry for how this happened. Maybe if I'd somehow managed to get her away to safety before the basilisk died…"

Harry trailed off, partially because there really was not anything further he could say, and partly because Ginny's head shot up from his shoulder, and she gazed at him through the tears which were still streaming down her face with an entirely familiar mask of displeasure.

"Oh honestly, Harry!" she huffed. "Only you could think that you could do better than simply kill a monster as dangerous as the basilisk. It's not your fault! If anyone is to blame, then it should rest on my shoulders for being childish enough to allow myself to become ensnared by that blasted diary."

"She's right, Harry," Molly echoed her daughter with a sad smile. "There is no way any rational person could consider you to be at fault for this."

"It doesn't feel like it," Harry muttered.

"Which is why you're such a good person, Harry," Arthur said. "But you do take too much on your shoulders, regardless."

He turned back to Dumbledore and his countenance was all business, though the emotion and anguish was still able to be seen. It was somewhat incongruous in the normally quiet and happy man's demeanor.

"Does Amelia know of this?"

"She knows of Harry," Dumbledore replied. "We just discovered Ginny before we called you here. I would appreciate it if you could inform the Minister of the latest developments."

Arthur gave him a tight nod. "Please find a solution, Albus. We cannot sacrifice either of them to defeat Voldemort, no matter what the cost."

Once Dumbledore had given his assurances that everything that could be done was being done, the group settled back into a somewhat more desultory conversation, Remus sharing more information with the couple about the subject, while the rest spoke quietly of subjects unrelated to the tragedy. It was perhaps something of a defense against the horror—if they could still speak of mundane subjects, there must be hope. The Headmaster, however, sat somewhat aloof from the rest, obviously caught up in his thoughts, or perhaps in trying to resolve the puzzle which lay before them. The Weasleys, of course, wanted to assure themselves that their daughter was well, in spite of the devastating news they had just received, and though Harry thought he saw something of a wariness in their eyes—understandable considering what they had learned—their fears were quickly allayed, and Ginny was the same person she had ever been, though of course, affected by the knowledge.

It was entirely understandable, Harry decided. The fact that a portion of a megalomaniac's soul lived intermingled with their daughter's would give anyone pause, not knowing exactly how that piece of soul would act. Would it influence her in any way? Would it induce either of them behave more in a manner keeping with the soul fragments embedded in them? Of course they knew that Ginny had now carried that shard for almost three years now and had received ample proof that she was still their daughter, regardless of what had been done to her. Still, it could not be easy, and Molly and Arthur were clearly trying to come to terms with what they had learned.

For Harry, his thoughts were consumed with feelings which were far from what he usually entertained. Fleur and Hermione—and Ginny, when her parents' attention was diverted elsewhere—talked in quiet voices around him. But Harry participated little and heard less. The one thought which dominated his mind was that of vengeance. Voldemort would be made to pay for what he had done. Of that, Harry was determined.

* * *

Being a mole in the Dark Lord's employ had become much more difficult since the failed attack on the Ministry. Not only had the Ministry developed a sort of competence which, truthfully, had not existed in years, but also a tenacity too, which had never truly been in evidence.

Even in the days of Minister Bagnold, who had been very well regarded herself, many of the department heads and those in their departments had been those who had come by their positions by reason of their family name or position in Wizarding society, rather than any true merit. And while some of those were surely capable people, it meant that there were also many who weren't, which made it much easier to work.

That problem had been further exacerbated by the fact that Fudge had held his position with the agenda of enriching himself, and as such, many more yes-men and hangers-on had risen to positions of authority. The Ministry had been so weak when the Dark Lord had returned, that many in the Death Eater ranks believed that it would fall if anything more than a stiff breeze were to hit it. But those who worked toward such an event had overlooked one small detail—Madam Bones had spent years entrenched in the Department of Magical Law enforcement, and had built a reputation for toughness and experience, and perhaps more importantly, had been ready and waiting in the wings for Fudges downfall.

Still, the Ministry should have been ripe for the plucking, as Fudge had played admirably, though unknowingly, into the Dark Lord's plans by keeping the Ministry from recognizing the his return, and ensuring they remained as weak as possible. And yet, when the Death Eaters had staged their attack, the Ministry had managed to remain standing, though bloodied, due to the combined efforts of the Minister, the Aurors, and that infernally interfering Dumbledore. And since then, the drive of the Minister to see the mistakes of Fudge's tenure reversed, had resulted in a much stronger front presented by the previously teetering Ministry. Oh for the glory days of Fudge's administration and the sheer incompetence the man had displayed. If only the Dark Lord had not killed him in a fit of anger!

Calming himself with an effort, Benedict stopped and reined in his anger. The truth of the Dark Lord's return had already been acknowledged by the time the Dark Lord had turned his wand on the ineffectual Minister, and the damage had been done. Fudge had already been finished, whether he had known it or not. The man's death had not even turned him into a martyr, so reviled was his for his blindness and willful stupidity. So in the end, it had not really affected the matter at all.

No, that was not the true problem. The true problem was that those in a position to influence events should have known that Bones was a potential problem. She should have been dealt with years ago, and if her predecessor had been effective too, then they should have been dealt with in the same manner. But it was all too late—Benedict had tried to get close enough to kill her, but the one time in which he had actually been able to make the attempt, that meddling Dumbledore had once again thwarted him. There was another who needed to pay the ultimate price for his continual interfering in the Dark Lord's plans.

But that too was another matter—Benedict was certain that the Dark Lord had something in mind for the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Benedict was there that Sunday night to investigate another matter, and one which was a potentially serious blow to the Dark Lord's continuing efforts to overthrow the Ministry and install a right-thinking regime in its place.

Things had been difficult lately. Not only had the attack on Hogsmeade been surprisingly turned back and the obvious existence of a traitor been discovered, but the Aurors that had been placed in the Auror department had subsequently gone quiet. Those moles should have provided warning to the Dark Lord that his plans for Hogsmeade had been compromised, preventing the debacle at the village and saving, not only the Death Eaters who had been killed and captured, but also their giant and werewolf allies.

Why had they not provided warning? Why had they not contacted the Dark Lord since before the Hogsmeade attack? The answers to those questions were why Benedict found himself in the Ministry late on a Sunday evening, when he would much rather have been at home, nursing a glass of firewhiskey.

Again Benedict cursed the Ministry and their sudden transformation into effectiveness. What would have been a relatively simple matter before was now fraught with danger. He was the Dark Lord's man in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he did not relish the thought of being exposed for being a Death Eater, but the Dark Lord had commanded, and he had no choice but to obey.

As Benedict walked into the law enforcement offices that evening, he noted that there were few others there, which he would have expected, given the weekend hour. There was, of course, the regular contingent of Aurors present, a few support staff filing reports, and others on building security detail. But as the head of the sub-department, his presence was well-known, and other than the usual greetings, his passage presented no particular interest.

Entering the Resource Department's office, Benedict gazed around, trying to see if anyone was there this late at night. Their office was always staffed to a certain extent, as those who took the Auror reports were always on duty, but they used offices closer to those inhabited by the Aurors. Strategic planning, duty rosters, and so forth, was likely to be deserted that late on a Sunday.

Except that it was not.

"Benedict," a young blond woman greeted him, and even as he plastered a smile on his face, he cursed the fact that she was there.

"Hestia," Benedict responded with an affected smile of greeting. "You're here late tonight."

"I just came in to see to a few things—nothing major."

Benedict nodded. "I've got a couple of things to look into myself. Don't let me bother you, though."

"All right, boss," Hestia returned. "I was about to head home anyway."

That was music to his ears, and he nodded and favored her with a more genuine smile than the one he had directed towards her earlier.

As she went back to whatever she was doing, Benedict watched her for a brief moment, before remembering himself and moving away from her towards his office. Hestia had always presented a unique challenge. She was perhaps a little fierier than he usually liked his women, but she was also very attractive—attractive enough that Benedict had wanted to bed her for years. Unfortunately, she had rebuffed his overtures after she had arrived, and Benedict was left with the frustration of wanting her, while knowing he had to bide his time.

Usually, he would not have had any compunction against taking her and obliviating her after the fact, but in this instance he had decided that it was not worth the considerable risk. She _was_ very capable, after all, and if anything happened, the Dark Lord would lose his informant in the department, an outcome which would incense him, especially for an insignificant sexual conquest.

But time was on his side, after all. Once the Dark Lord was established in the Ministry, Benedict would be free to take her at his leisure. The Dark Lord would not care one way or another over the fate of one insignificant female, especially if one of his favored Death Eaters was the one to take her. Benedict lost himself in his thoughts for a moment, relishing the idea of doing what he wished with her. He would make certain that she regretted refusing him all this time, and would take double pleasure in the fact that by all reports, she was now cavorting with the blood traitor Black. It would make the end result that much sweeter.

But now was not the time for such thoughts. Benedict knew that he had to focus on his task, or risk discovery. Failure would not be tolerated by the Dark Lord, so mercurial and hard to please had he become. Besides, given the fate of captured Death Eaters recently, he might not even survive long enough to be punished by his master.

Trying to appear busy, Benedict spent several moments in his office, waiting for the time when Hestia would leave and he would be free to conduct his search. Less than fifteen minutes later, when he confirmed that his colleague was no longer in the office, he went about his task.

The first place to look was the records, and he began to quickly go through them, hoping to find some mention of the fate of the two silent Death Eaters. But though he spent some time going over the past week's information, no mention of Sanderson or Thompson could be found. If Shacklebolt had discovered their duplicity, then he had not made any record of the fact.

With nothing to go on, Benedict slumped from the records room, and sat down at his desk, wondering what he should do now. Prudence suggested that he should return to the Dark Lord's lair and report that he had not been able to find anything.

But prudence was not perhaps exactly wise in this instance, due to the Dark Lord's unpredictable mood of late. The Dark Lord had been dealing out punishment much more than he ever had in the past, and Benedict was not certain at all that he would escape a similar fate himself. Surely there must be a way to carry out his orders for the evening.

Then it hit him—unless the two had been executed immediately and without a proper trial—something which was extremely unlikely—then they would be held in a secure location. And as the Dark Lord was well-known to have compromised the Dementors, Azkaban could not be considered to be a secure location. The only other place they were able to hold prisoners, unless they had established some other secret prison, were the cells underneath the Ministry on the same level as the courtrooms.

Nervously, Benedict considered the risk of confirming their incarceration by going down to the courtroom level himself. It would doubtlessly be guarded, but he could perhaps get away with it if he seemed to be official. It was risky, but so was returning empty handed to the Dark Lord. It was that thought that decided him.

Quickly, Benedict exited the office, after taking a few pages of parchment with him to make it seem official. He crossed through the DMLE and approached the on duty Aurors, returning their greetings as he attempted to quit the area.

"Benedict!" said Enrique Gonzalez, the section leader on duty. "You're here rather late."

"Just had to look into a couple of things," Benedict replied cheerfully. "I think I'll head home now, though. Got an early morning tomorrow, after all."

"Very well," Gonzalez replied. "A new order just came through, though, and I'll have to ask you to bare your arm."

Though his immediate instinct was to panic, Benedict hid his sudden anxiety carefully. "Bare my arm?" he asked lightly. "What's gotten into Shacklebolt?"

"Just making sure that everyone who works in the building is clear of the dark mark," was the other man's even reply. "The Auror corps was vetted a few days ago."

Benedict was just able to keep himself from sucking in a surprised breath. Clearly this was why the two Aurors had gone silent—they had been unmasked and taken into custody. The Dark Lord _must_ hear about it!

But first, he had to escape, and to do that, he would need to evade Gonzalez and the three Aurors who were eyeing him as he hesitated. They were clearly too much for him to handle by himself, obviously, so he would need to affect his escape quickly.

"The Auror corps was vetted you say?" he asked mildly, feigning a moderate interest in the news.

"They were. The department heads and the rest of the Ministry will soon follow. But Shack decided that we should start going through the workers that came in today for any reason."

"Come on, Gonzalez," Benedict cajoled. "You can't be suspicious of me. I've been working in this department for years. I'm no more a Death Eater than you are."

"I certainly hope not," was Gonzalez's firm reply. "But orders are orders. I will need to ask you to bare your arm. Once we establish the fact that you don't have the mark, you can swear an oath that you don't support You-Know-Who, and you can be on your way."

It was then that Benedict struck—he motioned with his hand, ejecting his wand from the holster, and quickly fired a reductor, which rendered a nearby desk into kindling, and showering the four men with splinters of wood. Dodging to the side to evade any return fire, Benedict sprinted toward the stairs, knowing that pursuit would only be a moment behind him. He had to make it down the stairs and to the Floos before they were able to catch him.

He was just nearing the stairs, when a voice called out, "_Petrificus Totalis!_"

Taken completely by surprise and not having time to elude the spell which appeared at close range, Benedict felt the spell impact him in the chest, throwing him from his feet, and snapping his arms and legs to his sides. He landed on the floor, hearing his wand roll away from his grasp, cursing his bad luck to run into someone.

A moment later a face filled his vision, as Hestia Jones looked down on him with an expression of interest. A moment later the pursuing Aurors trotted up and they began discussing the situation.

"Well, well, what have we here?" he heard the voice of Enrique Gonzalez speaking. "Benedict Yaxley—who would have thought? It's a good thing you were close by, Hestia."

"He seemed a little suspicious when he came into the office," Hestia replied. "I've never seen him come in on a weekend before."

Enrique was clearly curious. "So what did you do?"

"I disillusioned myself and watched him search the records, and then followed him out here. When you confronted him, I positioned myself near the exit so that I could take him down if he tried to escape."

"A good thing you did," Gonzalez replied approvingly. "Though he likely would not have made it past the guards at the Floos."

Roughly, Benedict felt the sleeve of his jacket being pulled up, exposing the Dark Lord's mark. He had failed.

"Well, Death Eater, looks like your luck has run out. I've got a nice cozy cell waiting for you to take up residence, right next to the other scum."

And with that, Benedict soon found himself trapped in a cell next to one of the missing Aurors. The Dark Lord would not be pleased in the slightest.

* * *

After the revelation that Ginny was a horcrux, it appeared as though Harry retreated even further into himself than ever. He disappeared immediately after the discussion in the Headmaster's office wound down, and though Hermione and Fleur attempted to discover his location, they had no luck whatsoever. The Room of Requirement was unoccupied, his normal haunts were abandoned, and they could not even use the map to locate him, as he had begun to carry it with him, no doubt to prevent anyone from using it to find him.

The next morning—being Sunday—he had appeared at breakfast once again, and though the two girls had tried to prompt him to tell them where he had been the previous night, he had rebuffed all attempts, preferring to simply ignore their questions than to make excuses. To all outward eyes, he tried to act as though nothing was wrong and everything was as it always was. Of course, this did not even fool his close circle of friends, to say nothing of Hermione and Fleur, who already knew what was bothering him.

With the revelations of the previous evening, another level of complexity was added to the situation. Not only was an overly brooding and tight-lipped Harry attracting attention, but Ginny Weasley, who had always been possessed of a sunny disposition and a bright personality had also suddenly turned morose. She attempted to appear happy at times that following day, but more often than not, her behavior mirrored Harry's. By later on that Sunday afternoon several of those around them had begun to notice the way Ginny was acting, and speculative glances showed that there were those who were making the connection between the demeanors of the two. Nothing had as yet been said, but it was becoming clear that something was amiss, and not only with Harry.

As to what they were to do on the situation, the two girls were not certain. Hermione's knowledge of her friend was rather ominous—in the past he had been sullen and moody at times, and did not take kindly to others interfering or bothering him with their expressions of sympathy, or even support. He was still affectionate with them both when they could corner him, but his expression could only be deemed wistful, and his attentions were more distant than they had been in the past. Harry was taking it hard and distancing himself from them as a result, and given the situation, it was difficult to come up with anything positive to try to cheer him up.

But even worse from Fleur's point of view, was the impression she had that Harry had given up. Oh, he was not suicidal and he had not given up the fight against Voldemort. In fact, if anything, he was showing signs of impressive tenacity in the prosecution of their cause against the Dark Lord. It was more that he had acquired a fatalistic air which appeared to have superseded any possibility of a solution being found for his conundrum. He made all the appropriate noises whenever one of them mentioned the possibility of Dumbledore or Remus finding a cure, but it was clear in his eyes that he had no hope of a solution ever being found.

On an undoubtedly related matter, once Harry had been found that Sunday morning, Hermione had begun to retreat as well, though hers was not from a fatalistic acceptance or a feeling of acute hopelessness. Rather, Hermione immediately repaired to the library and could be found there for the rest of the day, searching through dusty old tomes and obscure texts, obviously trying to find the answer to the problem. It seemed to Fleur like both of them slipped into themselves as the situation began to appear hopeless—Hermione to her books, and Harry to his brooding silences. Fleur had managed to drag Hermione from the library for dinner, but as soon as they had finished eating, she had immediately returned, where she stayed until the last possible moment before curfew.

Thus, it was up to Fleur alone to try to talk some sense into Harry.

Ironically, as Fleur strode through the school through the school, keeping a watchful eye on her betrothed after dinner that evening, she felt like the anguish she herself had felt the previous week and her subsequent discussion with Harry and his affirmation of his feelings for her, had given her a certain insight into what he was feeling. It also left her with a sense of purpose—as they were as of yet two years younger, Fleur knew that her companions were not yet to the point where they could cope with events of this nature as well as she, who was blessed with a couple more precious years of experience, was able. It was up to Fleur to keep the other two as positive as possible, and perhaps more importantly, to keep them together. Perhaps that was her role in their relationship, she thought to herself idly—she was there to keep the other two on an even keel, and to hold them together. Maybe she was the voice of rationality in the equation.

Now, she really did not believe that. If she had never come onto the scene, she imagined that Harry and Hermione would have managed together quite nicely. Still, if she could keep them positive, it would help them in the long run—people functioned much better if they had a positive attitude, after all.

But now was not the time to consider such things. Harry was hurting and he needed Fleur's help. She was determined to offer it to him, and to make him see that there was still hope, no matter how bleak the situation appeared.

"How are you holding up?" she asked quietly as they made their way through the hallways.

"I'm fine," Harry deadpanned, and for a moment, Fleur could see the playfulness evident in his voice. It quickly disappeared, however, only to be replaced with the ever-present moroseness.

Fleur fixed him with a glare. "I would think that you'd know me better than that," she replied, keeping her voice carefully modulated, yet firm. "That rote answer never has worked with anyone who knows you well. I'm not sure why you bother."

Rather than reply, Harry just shrugged. Fleur raised an eyebrow at him, but she said nothing further, allowing her body language to indicate that he still had not answered her question and that she was content to wait for his response.

At length Harry sighed and turned away from her. "I'm doing the best that I can, Fleur. I'm sorry, but that's about all I can give you."

They walked in silence for several more moments, and as Harry seemed to be struggling with something, Fleur kept quiet, waiting for him to speak.

"I'm just pretty jacked off at Riddle right now," he finally said into the silence. "I mean, he's already done his best to ruin my life. Now he goes and ruins someone else's."

It was quintessential Harry. He had been lost and forlorn when he had found out that his own piece of Voldemort's soul could not be removed, but the greater part of his anger was reserved for when Ginny had been found to be in a similar situation. He was, at heart, a selfless person, more concerned for others than he was for himself. It was one of the things which made him so easy to love.

Of course, this attitude could also be one which was a source of annoyance, because he tended to take the characteristic to extremes at times.

But those were thoughts for another time. Fleur consciously pushed them to the back of her mind and focused once again on Harry. "You know that we're all doing everything we can to solve this puzzle, right?"

Once again Harry sighed. "I know you all are, and I appreciate it."

"But you don't seem like you have a lot of hope."

And that was the crux of the problem, and regardless of Harry's state of mind, Fleur was certain that he understood that fact himself.

But Harry eschewed any kind of a verbal response. Instead, he merely shrugged his shoulders and continued to walk.

"Harry, speak to me. Please."

"I don't have a lot of hope," he replied, clearly enunciating what she had expected all along. "The ancients who created it could not come up with a way to get rid of it; how do we stand a chance?"

"We've got some very talented and knowledgeable people working on it," Fleur replied, holding her temper back. It would not do to allow herself to become frustrated with Harry now, with the mood he was obviously in. "Besides, we have more than three thousand years of further experience and magical development to draw on. I would think that we have a better chance to resolve this than the ancients had."

No response was forthcoming. It was as though he did not hear her, though she knew very well that he had heard every word.

"You need to have faith, Harry."

"Well faith is a commodity in which I have little experience," Harry replied, the first hint of impatience coloring his voice.

"Perhaps you've just never given it a chance."

"Look Fleur," Harry said, stopping and taking her by the hand, "I'm grateful for all you, Hermione, and everyone else has done for me. And I love you even more for how you are so strong, and how you keep me sane.

"The fact of the matter is that I don't know that anything can be done. I hope that Dumbledore will find something, and if he does, I will be pleasantly surprised. But I have to assume that nothing can be done. Riddle must fall and if my death is what is needed for it to happen, then I will not hesitate."

"What about Ginny?"

A sorrowful expression appeared on Harry's countenance and he ducked his head. "I can't do anything about Ginny, and I can't tell her how to feel or what she should do.

"But I promise you," Harry looked up, and she could see the fire of determination once again visible in his eyes, "I will do whatever it takes to see Riddle defeated. _That_ I can promise you."

Fleur gazed back at him, willing herself to be strong, though her heart hurt inside her chest. "Have you ever thought of what it would do to Hermione and me if you sacrifice yourself to defeat him?"

An expression of utter compassion came over him and he stepped forward and grasped Fleur's shoulders, gazing at her with affection. "Heartache does not last forever, Fleur, regardless of what is written in stories. I'm sure that you and Hermione will both find others to love if I don't survive. You'll both be wonderful wives and mothers some day. I hope it is with me, but I know that two girls as wonderful as you would have no problem finding other men to love, and to love you in return.

"I'm not giving up, Fleur," he added quietly. "I just want to make sure that whatever happens, Voldemort is defeated. He has to be, or no one is safe."

Though she was not at all appeased by Harry's words, Fleur instinctively knew that she would get nothing more substantial from him that day. She stepped forward and rested her head on his shoulder, imagining just for a moment that she was safe in the circle of his arms, and that none of it—Voldemort, Death Eaters, or Pureblood bigots—existed.

They stood there in that attitude for some time, ignoring those who passed through the halls and the curious looks with which they were favored. At length, Harry drew away and kissed her on the forehead.

"Come on. Let's go back to the common room and continue this on one of the couches. I'm sure it would be much more comfortable."

And so they did. But though Harry held her for much of the rest of the evening—and spared an arm for Hermione when she showed up just before curfew—very few words were spoken. Fleur knew that on some level Harry was deriving as much comfort from their proximity as she was from his, but she also knew that his conscious mind was somewhere far away from that sofa in the Gryffindor common room.

Somewhere, his mind wandered dark paths, filled with plans, dark lords and battles fought against an unyielding foe. Somewhere, Harry was plotting the downfall of a dark lord, and Fleur was fearful of what form his plotting would ultimately take.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Thanks to everyone who has made it this far. We're approaching the big events, and the tension is ratcheting up as a result.

2. Do you like my brooding and angry Harry? You'll see in the next chapter where his anger is taking him, though the story arc of what happens next is spread out over several chapters.

3. So now you know who tried to kill Amelia. I'm surprised that no one has mentioned Yaxley yet in a review—he has been rather conspicuous by his absence.


	63. Chapter 62 – Reckless Behavior

**Previously: **Ginny is summoned to Dumbledore's office, and is confirmed to be a horcrux. Her parents are summoned and they hear the explanation. Yaxley investigates the disappearance of the two Auror moles, and is captured and unmasked as a Death Eater. Fleur reminds Harry that everyone is with him, and he responds that he has not given up.

* * *

**Chapter 62 – Reckless Behavior**

The unmasking of Benedict Yaxley as a Death Eater and his subsequent capture highlighted the need to quickly push forward with efforts to identify all Death Eaters hidden in the bosom of the Ministry. To this end, it had been decided by the Minister that the effort should be given first priority, and once things had settled from the events surrounding the attack on Hogsmeade, Director Shacklebolt was once again able to focus on the matter. Yaxley's capture was a major coup for the Ministry, as it was suspected that the Dark Lord relied heavily on the information the man was able to provide, as well as the confusion and disinformation he had undoubtedly sown. It was possible that the Dark Lord would stop marking his spies and attempt to infiltrate new ones into the Ministry, but he had not shown a willingness to do that as of yet.

As the Minister had requested Albus's presence at the meeting which would vet the Department Heads, he made his way to the Ministry building that morning, thinking that he had almost spent more time at the Ministry since the attack than he had at Hogwarts. It was something which concerned him, though he knew that Professor McGonagall was capable of doing the job in his absence. There was the ever-present threat of attack, which he could not help but suppose was great when he was not present, but also the fact that nothing could replace the guiding presence of a school's Headmaster.

Albus was well aware that some would castigate him, noting that he had spent a good portion of his time as Headmaster holding down other, equally demanding positions, and as such, had never had the time to truly devote his all to the school. And they would be correct, though Albus would note that he had undertaken these positions due to the feeling that the Wizarding world required his assistance in preparing for Voldemort's ultimate return. Regardless of what others said, Albus was looking forward to the day when he could resign his other positions and focus on the school, or perhaps even retire completely and devote himself to some of his other interests.

He found the Minister in her office and he entered, noting how the damage to the structure had almost been completely repaired. He imagined that the orb had been re-keyed to the office to provide protection again should it be needed—it had proved its usefulness in protecting the Minister once, and Albus did not doubt that all thoughts of scrapping it had been abandoned.

"Albus. Thank you for coming," Amelia said by way of a greeting.

"Of course, Amelia," Albus returned. "I presume everything is ready for the day's task?"

Grimacing, the Minister gave a tight nod. "Yaxley was a surprise. We are now making sure that everyone swears an oath that they are not affiliated with Voldemort and will not support him in the future. Even if they have some sympathies, they are being removed. We cannot afford to have anyone in the Ministry potentially turn to Voldemort and offer him information."

"Agreed," Albus replied, thinking of how much further ahead they would be if previous Ministers had simply taken that stance.

A short time later the Department Heads had convened in the Ministry's largest conference rooms, ostensibly for a staff meeting with the Minister, albeit not at the usual time. Still, there appeared to be no visible curiosity as to why the Minister had called the impromptu meeting. The Heads were all quiet and composed, and seated in their respective places within moments, though that did not mean that questions were not asked.

"Arthur," Jonus Berrens, the Director of the Department of Magical Education, spoke up, "do you know what this meeting is all about?"

Arthur merely shrugged and said, "There are a few things the Minister wants to discuss and make clear, especially since the attack."

A grunt was Berrens's only response, and he turned to another Director at his side and began speaking to him. Albus surveyed the room from where he sat at the edges of the room. Many of those who occupied it were Purebloods, and though some were still some of Fudge's favored "yes men," he did not think that there were any overt Voldemort supporters amongst them, though many were undoubtedly sympathetic to his cause. Albus expected that because of that fact, there would be several vacancies before the day ended.

The council was made to wait for some time—almost a quarter of an hour—before anything happened, and Albus knew that the wait was deliberate. Beyond the fact that it caused a little annoyance at being made to wait, it dulled the edges of any suspicion any of them might have had at being summoned in such a manner. Knowing what was about to happen, Albus made a surreptitious check of his wand, readying himself to intervene should anyone attempt to resist.

It turned out to be unnecessary. It appeared everyone in the room was taken completely by surprise when the three doors to the room burst open simultaneously, and Aurors flooded into the room with wands drawn. The surprise of the gathered Heads was such that no one even appeared to think of drawing their own wands, and within minutes, they had been disarmed, though not without protestation.

By the time the Minister entered the room and approached the head of the table, however, most had found their voices, and their displeasure rose up in a discordant cacophony. The indignation was impressive, but completely cowed when the Minister began to speak.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Amelia cut through the mounting noise, her voice short and clipped, and not allowing any opposition. "Thank you all for giving me your attention." Her voice held a slightly mocking quality, but her words were said with such steel that no one dared speak in response.

"What none of you are aware of is that the entire Auror and Hit Wizard force was swept for Voldemort supporters on Saturday before we met his forces in Hogsmeade. You will also be equally unaware of the fact that in our sweep, we picked up two marked Death Eaters. Those men are currently decorating cells underneath the courtroom levels."

"You think there are Death Eaters among _us?_" Dieter Dashworth, the director of the Department of Magical Transportation asked, aghast.

In truth, Albus knew him to be one of the primary suspects in the day's events. With the Floo being shut down the day of the attack, suspicion had come upon the Floo Network Authority, and as such on the entire department. In truth, Albus thought Dashworth to be too much of a puffed up dandy to be a Death Eater, though his social views, which he never bothered to hide, certainly _did_ fit in with those Voldemort espoused.

The Minister, however, shot Dashworth a quelling glare. "We do not _know_ there are Death Eaters among you. But we cannot take a chance." She peered around the room, her gaze resting upon each of the department heads in turn, skewering them with her eyes. There were several among them who would not meet her gaze.

"Before you leave this room you will all bare your left arms, and you will give magical oaths, stating that you are not in league with Voldemort."

"And if we refuse?" one of the heads from further down the table demanded.

"Then you may take up residence in the cells with the two Aurors we found to be marked," said the Minister.

"You can't get away with that!" said Evgeny Eagles, the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, since Ludo Bagman's disgrace the previous year.

"I assure you that I can," snapped the Minister. "What you all do not seem to understand is that we are at war with an enemy who walks among us, and means to see our world brought to ruin. I can arrest you and hold you under the suspicion of being a Death Eater, and I can hold you until it can be proven one way or another whether you are."

Her tone of voice and implacable glare told all who witnessed it that the Minister was completely serious in her threats.

"I suggest you simply swear the oaths," she continued. "If you are not one of Voldemort's minions, then you have nothing to fear. If you are, then you have no recourse. We _will_ discover you."

Thoroughly cowed by the Minister's threats, the department heads were subsequently induced to do as she asked. There were no Death Eaters to be found among them, though several were obviously reluctant. They were then sequestered and interviewed by the Auror forces, and several were removed from their posts, most notably the aforementioned Dieter Dashworth.

The true surprises came later in the day. As the Dashworth's department had been implicated in the events surrounding the attack on the Ministry, the entire department was the first priority to have its workers investigated. It was found that the head of the Floo Authority was himself a Death Eater, as well as three close subordinates. In addition, a low-level member of the Broom Regulatory Control was found with the mark, and even more chillingly, one of the workers in the Portkey Office was also found to be a Death Eater. Finally, though he was not a Death Eater himself, Dashworth was found through interrogation to be aware to a certain extent the activities of certain members of his department, and had found himself incarcerated with his unofficial companions.

The records were immediately consulted, and the Aurors paid visits to almost one hundred people who had been provided portkeys by the mole in that department, though almost a dozen of them could not be found, along with their immediate families. It was clear that the emergency portkeys he had been providing had instead whisked those attempting to flee into the hands of their enemies. The remaining portkeys were quickly replaced before they could be used.

At the end of the day, another department had been completely investigated and a couple of other moles had been discovered. Albus left the Ministry, confident that everything that could be done to oppose Voldemort was being done, and that the Ministry was well on the way to righting its ship and making sure that Voldemort did not have any Death Eaters among them. It was far from foolproof and did not account for the use of the Imperius Curse, but at least it was a step in the right direction.

* * *

On Wednesday of that week, Jean-Sebastian walked through the halls of the French Ministry, noting that it was good to be back in the country of his youth, and an environment in which he was familiar. Britain was simply different from what Jean-Sebastian was used to, both in its political climate, and in its culture.

The French Ministry was perhaps even more of an expression of Wizarding arrogance than he had thought the Hogwarts Express to be all those months ago when he had seen his eldest child on it for her one and only journey to the venerable school. Whereas the British Ministry had been constructed completely underground and hidden away from prying Muggle eyes, the French had simply taken over a number of floors of a downtown Paris office building. With the help of certain charms, no one who frequented the building seemed to think that it was unusual that the first twenty floors were not accessible to most people and for all intents and purposes did not exist to the Muggles. Of course, the French version of the Department of Mysteries had been built under the building, as some of their experiments were dangerous, and they needed a lot more room for their own Hall of Prophecy than a single floor in an office tower would give. Beyond that, if some Unspeakable experiment went awry, it would be much easier to hide it if it occurred underground, than if some windows of an office tower were suddenly blown out onto the street, and smoke billowed up into the sky.

Regardless, the building was much lighter and airier than the underground British Ministry, and Jean-Sebastian felt much more at home here than he ever had in the Britain.

That day was auspicious for several reasons, but most importantly, because Alain had called the French Magical Assembly today in order to pass a resolution to throw their lot in with the British. There were many in the Assembly who did not like anything English—the two countries were traditional rivals, regardless of the Muggle cooperation in two world wars and their cordial relations ever since. But Jean-Sebastian was of the opinion that the members would see the necessity of this. He would _make_ them see the necessity, as he was not convinced at this time that the British had the resources to defeat Voldemort without outside assistance.

Jean-Sebastian's greetings to Alain were warm, but perfunctory, consumed as he was by what he would say to the Assembly. Soon, he was situated in the Assembly's chambers while its members filed in to the room, many of whom he knew personally, and most of whom seemed surprised to see him.

When the Minister approached the lectern to speak, a hush fell over the participants.

"My fellow Assembly members," he began, "I thank you for attending this special session today. Let me make a few brief remarks before I cede the floor to our Ambassador to England."

All eyes rotated to Jean-Sebastian and he noted that not all were friendly. He had his own enemies in French political circles, after all, partially because of his ideology, but he was also aware of a few bigots who did not like him because he had married a Veela. France had a tendency to be more tolerant of Veela in particular—though they had their fair share of Pureblood bigots here as well—and therefore there were fewer who would look down on him or his wife and children because of it. Still, they were out there.

"I believe that you are all to a certain extent aware of the troubles plaguing our neighbors in Britain. Their Dark Lord has arisen yet again and threatens them. He has recently begun a campaign to topple the magical government, and wishes to take over and force his views of world order on them. Today's discussion centers on what France's response will be to his second rise. I have discussed this with our esteemed Chief Warlock and we have agreed that we must keep knowledge of this meeting from the ears of the Dark Lord. As such, I am invoking the secrecy act on this meeting."

Ancient magics fell over those members and bound them to the Minister's words, by the oaths that they all swore when they were accepted into membership to the Assembly. No one in the room would be able to divulge anything concerning the discussion to anyone who already did not know, except under certain conditions. There was a murmur of discussion which welled up at this act—it was not normally done and reserved only for the most secret and sensitive discussions.

"Why would we need to become involved with a _British_ problem?" a voice rang out from the top rows of the Assembly.

Jean-Sebastian could not see who spoke, but he knew that such a sentiment would hardly be an uncommon one.

"All will be explained in due course," Alain replied. "But I must point out that such a position is extremely short-sighted. We are, after all, Britain's closest neighbor, only separated by a few miles of water. What should happen if Voldemort should topple the British government?"

"I can tell you exactly what would happen," Jean-Sebastian interjected, rising from his seat to stare out over the Assembly. "I beg your pardon, Minister, but I believe that the explanation would be best coming from me."

Alain waved him to the podium and returned to his seat while Jean-Sebastian looked out over the Assembly. He liked to think that his compatriots were fair-minded individuals who would listen to the facts and make the prudent decisions based on what was best for them all. Undoubtedly, though, there would be Fudges among them, who would rather bury their heads in the sand, as there would also be those who hated everything British and would rather see their neighbors burn than offer assistance. There would also be those bigots who agreed with Voldemort's overall aims, if not his methods.. Most, however, would be much more enlightened, and it was his job to see that the fence-sitters were brought to an understanding of the true nature of the threat.

"Let me tell you what our neighbors are facing," Jean-Sebastian began, registering the looks of surprise from many in the Assembly. They had, no doubt, expected him to launch into a plea for support. One of the hallmarks of a good politician was to do the unexpected, and though Jean-Sebastian did not consider himself to be a political animal, this was perhaps the most important address he had ever given.

"A few days ago, an attack was planned on Hogsmeade in Scotland. For those of you who are unaware, Hogsmeade is the village which is close to Hogwarts, and its students often frequent the village, particularly on 'Hogsmeade weekends' which are designated as days when the students are allowed to go to the village and spend a little time away from the school.

"This attack was ultimately foiled by fortunate happenstance. But this does not tell the whole story. For you see, the attacking force was made up of werewolves under the leadership of Fenrir Greyback, and a number of giants, lured to Britain for the promise of violence and killing."

There were a few nodded heads—Jean-Sebastian was aware that the attack had been reported in the French papers. But there were many more paled faces—giants were no laughing matter, and Fenrir Greyback, though an English scourge, was still known and reviled in France.

"What most of you will not know is that the survivors of the attack were interrogated by the British Ministry's Aurors. What they found was a sinister plan, designed not only to cause as much damage as possible, but to use children in the furtherance of this Voldemort's plans. The werewolves and giants were to drive the school children into the arms of the waiting Death Eaters, who would capture them and return to the Dark Lord. Then, the werewolves and giants were free to destroy the village."

Jean-Sebastian gazed out over the audience, who were silently watching and listening to his words. The gravity of the situation was not lost on anyone.

"Those children who were captured would be held by Voldemort until his demands were met, and I do not think I need to inform you all, that he would have demanded the capitulation of the government. Of course, those who he considers lesser beings would have been of no use in persuading the government to stand down. I am certain Lucius Malfoy's trial was reported in France, so I leave it to your imagination what their fate would have been."

Murmurs broke out over the Assembly, and Jean-Sebastian saw that he had their attention. The hook was out—now it was time to reel them in.

"Now, I understand many of you will wonder why this becomes _our_ problem," he continued, and the murmurs died down. "The British created this problem of the Dark Lord—let them fix it.

"I can tell you that is a foolhardy stance, and one that endangers us all. For you see, our British cousins have recently learned that the problem is not only a British problem. It is one which besets us all.

"At the height of the first war, Voldemort likely had between seventy and eighty wands in his entire force. In the attacks that occurred on the Ministry and other targets, there were more than two hundred Death Eaters participating in the attacks. Many of those Death Eaters were from other countries—Germans, Americans, Austrians, and nationals of other countries have all been recruited to support Voldemort's cause. And yes, there were Frenchmen among them.

"In fact," Jean-Sebastian said, his tone rising in an attempt to be heard over the rising hubbub of noise, "a member of my own security detail was found to be a Voldemort supporter. He tried to prevent my wife and youngest daughter from escaping an attack led by the Dark Lord himself.

"_That_ is what we are facing!" Jean-Sebastian thundered. "Voldemort has agents in many countries and they are all descending upon Britain with the intention of overthrowing that country and taking control for themselves."

"Let them!" a voice rose above the rest. "It has nothing to do with us!"

"I knew you were short-sighted, Dupuis," Jean-Sebastian snapped, "but I didn't know that you were stupid too."

The man in question, a short, rotund little fellow, who was known to be a virulent English hater and a Pureblood bigot in his own right, glared down at Jean-Sebastian. For his own part, Jean-Sebastian merely looked away in disgust.

"It has _everything_ to do with us! Have you not been listening to a word I said?" Jean-Sebastian glared out over the Assembly. "Voldemort will not be content with Britain if he manages to take control there. After all, there are Muggleborns, Veela, and others who he considers inferior in all parts of the world. We would be foolhardy if we assumed that he would be content to rule Britain and ignore the rest of the world. And if he does manage to topple the British government, recruits will flock to him. It will become immeasurably more difficult to defeat him if we allow him his victory.

"And one more thing this assembly should consider," Jean-Sebastian continued after a moment's pause. "Right now, it is primarily the British who are at risk to the Dark Lord's forces. It is in our best interests to fight him on foreign soil—to stop him before he becomes a threat to _our_ citizens. Think on that if you are considering voting against this resolution. We have a chance to help stop this madman without putting any of our own citizens at risk."

"What about our Aurors?" called a voice from the Assembly.

"Yes, our Aurors will be at risk in battle," Jean-Sebastian replied. "But they know they are at risk in any conflict. I believe it makes much more sense to have them defend our population _on_ _foreign soil_, than to do it on our own. Remember the British in World War II—they attempted and failed to stop the Nazi advance in France, and paid a steep price to the German Luftwaffe when they failed. I propose that we act now, and that we do not fail!"

Having made his plea, Jean-Sebastian sat down and looked out over the Assembly. Having been in Britain for the past months, his attendance to the Assembly meetings had been sparse, and he was not entirely certain of the mood of the body. But Alain smiled at him as he rose and went to the lectern. He, at least, seemed to think that it was enough.

And in the end, he was right. There were dissenting voices, as always, but when the vote was finally taken, the motion was passed by a wide margin. The French would stand with the British in the upcoming struggle.

* * *

"Come on, Harry!" Ron pleaded. "Something's wrong here. You've been out of sorts for days, and now Ginny's acting strange. Tell us what's going on."

As Ron met Harry's stony gaze he was struck by the thought that Harry had developed a bit of intimidation in the past year. It did not hurt that his friend had gained a good bit of height, to the point where he stood only a couple of inches shorter than Ron himself. But though Harry's growth spurt was a factor, it was more the air his friend had attained, especially in the past few months. He was truly evolving into a leader, and Ron could only applaud his friend's new confidence and initiative.

Unfortunately, Harry's stubbornness remained a firm aspect of his character, and when he dug his heels in, getting something out of him was almost like pulling a brick out of a wall without chipping the mortar away. But this time Ron was not about to give in; Harry could keep his secrets if he chose, but now that Ginny had started to act up—strangely enough in a manner which was very reminiscent of the way Harry had been lately—Ron was determined to get to the bottom of this. And in this he was for once supported by his brothers, who stood to either side of him, focused on Harry. For once, Fred and George were completely serious.

"I can't tell you," Harry insisted. "If there's something wrong with Ginny, then she's the one you need to ask."

"Ginny's clammed up," Fred interjected.

"We can't get her to say anything," George added.

"Then I can't help you guys," Harry insisted.

"Harry—"

"I _can't_ tell you," Harry spoke once again, this time somewhat harshly. "There are other things going on here, which you don't know about, and the fact of the matter is that I _can't_ say anything about it. I don't have a choice."

"That's not entirely accurate, Harry."

Startled, Ron looked up to see Ginny coming down the stairs from the dorms and, as she had appeared the past few days, her expression was grim and troubled. Whatever Ron was about to say died on his tongue—something fearful was afoot here, and whether Ginny chose to tell them, it suddenly seemed like an imposition to try to wheedle it out of her.

"You know that we can tell them if we swear them to the oaths."

Ron was shocked, and from the reactions of his brothers, it was easy to see that they had been taken by surprise as he had. Oaths? What on earth was Ginny talking about?

Harry did not reply immediately. Rather, he glanced around the room, evidently to see if anyone was listening in on their conversation. The common room was rather sparsely populated, their conversation having gone into the normal dinner hour. Even Fleur and Hermione, who had been hovering around Harry even more so than usual, were not present.

"We cannot discuss this here," Harry hissed, drawing closer to all of them. "Come on."

He started out the portrait hole without looking back—not that he needed to, as all four Weasley siblings were close upon his heels. He led them away from Gryffindor Tower and down a few levels to a part of the school which was largely unused. The room he entered was an old, unused classroom, which he, Fleur and Hermione had used for their Occlumency lessons—lessons which had come to a halt with the events of the previous weeks. It had the benefit of having been cleaned to the point of being habitable, though not precisely comfortable.

Once there, he closed the door after they had all entered, and began to shoot off privacy spells, indicating to the twins that they should do the same.

"You too, guys," he said as he worked. "I know you know lots of privacy spells since you don't get caught as much as you should. We might not be able to make this place as spy-proof as Dumbledore, but we need to do our best."

Bewildered, Ron watched as the three of them worked. What could possibly be so important as to warrant this level of paranoia? He turned to Ginny but she ignored him, watching closely as she was to the actions of the other three occupants of the room.

Once the room had been warded to Harry's satisfaction, he turned to the rest of them, but more specifically to Ginny, whom he addressed directly.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Ginny?" he asked, with a gentleness Ron had only seen him display toward Hermione and Fleur. It confused him all that much more.

"They're my brothers, Harry," was Ginny's simple reply. "Sooner or later they're going to find out anyway."

Seeming to digest this, Harry gave Ginny a tight nod before turning back toward Ron and the twins, his entire demeanor as serious as Ron had ever seen him.

"All right, then we'll tell you. But I have to warn you—what you're about to hear is secret, and it can never be told to anyone. Before we can tell you anything, you need to swear a series of oaths which will make sure you don't. Are you sure you want to hear this?"

For a brief moment Ron almost considered taking Harry up on his last minute offer to forget the whole thing, which was, he was sure, why Harry had offered in the first place. But sanity quickly asserted itself and Ron knew that no matter how awful this was—and he was certain that it could not be _good_ considering what they had just heard and how his friend and younger sister had acted— if it affected a member of his family, then he wanted to know. A quick glance at the twins showed their resolve matched his own.

"Please, Harry," he replied to his closest friend. "If there's something wrong, we'd like to know."

With a tight nod, Harry motioned for them all to take seats. Slowly, Ron lowered himself into a chair behind a desk, waiting for his friend to begin. The oaths were amazing, in that Ron did not think that he would be able to even _think_ much about what he was about to hear, let alone tell anyone else about it. He had never even imagined magical oaths being used in such a manner. A pit formed in the bottom of his stomach, which only became worse when Ginny and Harry paused before going into the explanation of what had been bothering them.

"Do you want to explain it, Ginny?" Harry asked.

Ginny's returning smile was almost a grimace. "Can you do it please? You know more about these things than I do."

Reaching out, Harry squeezed her hand. He then turned to the three brothers, but he paused before speaking, quite apparently, to Ron's eyes, attempting to find the best way to put whatever he had to say. Ron waited in suspense, wishing for Harry to get on with it and tell them what the problem was, while another part wished that he had not insisted on being told.

A moment later, Harry squared his shoulders and looked each of them in the eye in turn. "Right. I suppose that it would be best to just tell you and get it over with.

"Now, do any of you know what a horcrux is?"

For the next hour, Harry explained to them in detail exactly what was going on, and horror after horror was revealed to them. He started with learning of his own situation and learning he was a horcrux just after Christmas, the hope that he felt when Professor Lupin had been sent to Egypt to try to discover an answer. He then covered the return of the professor and the news he brought of the true nature of horcruxes. And if all that was not bad enough, he then covered the discovery of Ginny as another one of these abominations, and how her own turn in her mood had coincided with her learning of her own situation.

By the end of the narration, all three Weasley boys had tears running unabashedly down their cheeks, as they held their only sister tightly in between them. It was all Ron could do to check himself from rising to his feet and ranting about the injustice of it all.

* * *

Harry watched as the Weasleys gathered around their little sister, smothering her with their attention and love. Somehow, though he had never witnessed such a reaction from any of them, the Weasleys were such a close-knit family, he had known that they would rally around their sister, share her burden, and ensure that she _never_ felt alone. For the briefest of moments, Harry felt a stab of jealousy pierce his heart at the sight. Hermione had always been there for him, Ron was a good friend, and the Delacours had become a surrogate family, but nothing could take the place of loving parents and the siblings he might have had. He mourned their loss in that moment like he never had before.

Then, furious with himself for his momentary lapse, Harry forced such thoughts from his mind and focused on the true author of all this misery. Voldemort. The dark tosser fouled everything he touched and sowed despair wherever he went. At that moment he did not know how, but he was determined to make him pay for what he had done.

"You all right there, Harry?"

The thoughts dissolved and Harry looked at his friend who, apparently seeing Harry's sudden distraction, was now regarding him with concern. Harry allowed a ghost of a smile to come over him, while reflecting that it truly was good to have such good and caring friends.

"You know me, Ron," he replied simply. "All in a day's work for Harry Potter."

Behind Ron, Ginny rolled her eyes. "Don't believe a word he tells you. He's just as affected by this as I am."

"Maybe so," Harry agreed. "But I'm also used to it. I'll get by.

"But look," he continued, taking in all four of the siblings, "I think you may need a little time alone as a family. I'd like to think about things for a while anyway, so I'll leave you to it."

The siblings protested that he was always welcome, but Harry insisted, excusing himself a few moments later. He walked away from the classroom, his mind already worrying over the problem. All this sitting around would not do; maybe it was the time to carry the fight back to Voldemort.

* * *

As the Boy-Who-Lived walked from the classroom, the siblings watched him go, concerned for his safety and state of mind, but no one watched him closer than Ginny. Harry had been off ever since the night, Ginny now knew, when he had learned of the true nature of horcruxes, and Fleur and Hermione had both confided in Ginny that they were concerned about him, a concern that Ginny shared herself.

In short, Harry, though he had improved dramatically over the past year, both in his demeanor and his confidence, was still the same impetuous boy that he had been before. This school year he had had little opportunity to be impetuous, as the problems they had faced had largely been handled quickly. His other activities, such as the adventure in the Ministry, had been carefully scripted and planned out as much as possible in advance.

Now, however, Harry appeared adrift once again without a rudder, and Ginny was concerned that he would do something without the proper consideration for what the consequences would be.

If Ginny were to be completely honest with herself, she knew that she espoused those same feelings herself. A part of her raged at Voldemort and at the unfairness of life. But she knew she had to control it. The situation appeared to be bleak, and she was aware of the fact that if one were to consider the situation in the strictest of manners, Voldemort's defeat was important to every man, woman, and child in Britain, and arguably, in the whole world. Would it not make sense to sacrifice the two of them for the good of everyone?

Ginny had no answers. But what she did know was that Harry appeared to be focusing inward upon himself, and in the past, that had signaled potentially rash behavior. He would bear careful watching. Whatever he decided to do, Ginny would not allow him to endanger himself without due cause. And if it came down to it, she would join him in making sure Voldemort was defeated.

* * *

After a night spent largely awake, worrying over the matter at hand, Harry had come to a resolution.

The facts of the matter, as he saw them, were incontrovertible. Voldemort must be defeated, and to do so, his horcruxes must be destroyed. There was nothing else to be done.

With that end in mind, the question now became a matter of what particular actions were to be taken to ensure he met his end. And there was the dilemma—if the horcruxes had been nothing more than inert objects as Dumbledore had first thought, then find them, destroy them, and ensure Voldemort came to a nasty end by whatever means possible. And those steps need not happen in any particular order either.

The situation, however, had changed. Though the man had not known the true nature of horcruxes before and had not taken several available opportunities to simply take over Harry and be done with it, there was no guarantee that he would not discover the link in the future. Harry, through much thought, had decided that it was far too risky to kill Voldemort now and take the chance of his discovering that he had a waiting body in Harry, Ginny, or some other poor sod out there who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Thus, it became apparent that in order for Voldemort to be finally and irrevocably defeated, his horcruxes must be dealt with and the existence of any others must be discovered. Though he was not completely certain and did not have a concrete plan in mind, some vague possibility of a confrontation with Voldemort, killing him, but not before informing him of the true nature of horcruxes, and thereby luring him to take over Harry when he died, then having someone else kill him the moment Voldemort took him over, flittered through his mind. Of course, this did not take into account Ginny's status as a horcrux herself, but Harry shied away from that fact for the time being. There was nothing he could do about Ginny; she would have to decide her own course and her own fate—he was having enough difficulty dealing with his own. It also did not take into account the possibility of there being other horcruxes, but that was a subject to be dealt with at another time.

But that left one other inescapable fact—Nagini was also suspected to be a horcrux, and the more he thought of it, the more Harry thought that Dumbledore had the right of it. And therefore, if the snake was a horcrux, then it would need to be killed before any plans to lure Voldemort to his death could be contemplated.

What was equally evident was that the snake could not be killed by just anyone. Given what Remus had discovered about how soul shards reacted to their animal host being destroyed and, more importantly, how Ginny had come to be a horcrux, he knew that anyone who killed the snake ran the risk of becoming a horcrux themselves. In fact, it was almost a certainty, unless someone else was nearby, and could become the horcrux in their stead. Either way would still constitute a problem.

Of course there was one exception to that possibility—Harry himself. Remus was not certain if a soul shard could be added to an existing horcrux, but thinking about it philosophically, he supposed that it truly did not matter if he had one soul shard residing within him, or if he had two. The end result was the same—by continuing to live, he anchored Voldemort to the earth, rendering him undefeatable.

Thus, it made sense that if anyone was to kill Nagini and dispose of the horcrux within it, that person must be Harry himself. He simply could not bear the thought of someone else doing the deed and becoming a horcrux for their trouble. It was bad enough that Ginny was one—he did not think he could live with himself, for whatever time he had left, if he allowed someone else's life to be ruined by Voldemort's megalomaniacal bid for power. The additional benefit, of course, was the fact that if he could manage to kill Nagini, her death might prompt Voldemort into a rash action where he could be defeated much sooner than might otherwise be the case.

Once Harry had that all sorted out in his mind, he then turned his attention to another problem—by all accounts Voldemort kept the snake close to him, as was to be expected, if their suspicions were true. So how could Harry get at the snake in order to kill it, especially if he was to prevent the soul shard from simply seeking another host?

The more Harry thought about it, the firmer his plan of action became. And as he thought about it, and considered possible how he might proceed, and the danger of such a path, the more convinced he became that his plan could work. The only final consideration was that he did not know where Voldemort had hidden himself. However, there was one who did know.

The next morning, Harry arose from his bed, showered and dressed quickly, and made his way from the tower as soon as the night's curfew was lifted. His friends would worry about him, he knew, but for his plan to succeed, absolute secrecy was required. So Harry pushed down any feelings of guilt and determinedly marched through Hogwarts, intent upon his destination. It was a good thing that it was still early in the morning, as he saw no one on his way to his destination. Talk might have made the rounds had someone witnessed him heading toward a part of the castle he might have otherwise avoided.

When he reached his destination, Harry paused for a moment outside the door and gathered himself. He did not expect the coming conversation to be pleasant, and if history was any indication, he rather suspected that he would want to deck the person he had come to see before he had spoken two sentences. But it could not be helped—he _needed_ this person's assistance and would do whatever it took to make certain he would get it.

Finally, after screwing up his courage, Harry gathering himself and he knocked on the door, entering when the voice from the other side indicated he should do so.

The potions master's office was the same as it had always been—dark and dreary and in every way a reflection of the dark and brooding man who occupied it. Snape himself sat behind his desk and he eyed Harry as he approached, he face revealing nothing, not even surprise that his current nemesis should dare to approach him in his own territory. It did not follow that the gaze was welcoming in any way—of course, the only thing about Harry which Snape would welcome, he thought, was his demise. It appeared he would eventually get his wish, Harry thought with a dark hint of humor, though it would not be until Harry had finished with Voldemort.

"Potter," Snape said when Harry stopped in front of his desk.

"Professor," Harry replied in kind. Had he had the presence of mind to think of such things, he would have recognized that his own responding voice was completely expressionless, void of the anger he would normally have felt for the man, and indeed of any contempt he might have inspired.

"To what do I owe the… pleasure of your company?" Snape prompted.

"I need your help."

Surprise flickered over Snape's countenance, and he sat back in the chair. "Help?" he asked, with a hint of incredulity entering his voice. "I would have thought that Miss Granger would have been the recipient for such a request. _You_ have never asked _me_ for help before."

Harry forbore pointing out that it was Snape's own demeanor which discouraged any thought of appealing directly to him.

"I need something that she can't help me with."

"Very well," said Snape after a moment. He leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. "What can I do for you?"

"I need you to tell me where Voldemort is," Harry replied.

Whatever the man had been expecting, clearly this had not been it. He actually lost his careful control for an instant, gaping at Harry as though he had never seen him before. Then, of course, the predictable anger made its appearance.

"And why would I tell you where to find the Dark Lord?" he snapped, eyes flashing with ire.

"Because you want him defeated as much as I do," Harry rejoined.

A familiar sneer came over the potions master's face. "And you think that you can simply walk into his presence and kill him?" he asked with contempt oozing from his voice. "Just stroll up to the Dark Lord and finish him off in time for tea. Is that your master plan? Perhaps you should stop playing adult and let those who are actually in a position to handle the Dark Lord do so."

In the past, the man's tone and scathing words might have provoked an angry response from Harry, but at that moment, it truly did not affect him. The man was petty and predictable, a true child carrying a grudge in a man's body. Still, his words warranted a response, and Harry could not help but oblige him.

"Like you playing adult?"

Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously, but Harry continued on somewhat blithely. "It's not very adult-like to carry a grudge for a dead man's son. If I wasn't aware of the oaths Dumbledore had you swear, I'd think you're playing both sides. But at least I'm trying to do something. Rather than have your revenge on him, you just sit their like a spider in its web, trying to entrap him in its silken strands. In fact, the spider is even better than you—at least the spider will finish the prey off when it's entrapped in its web—you just sit back and try to make others do your dirty work. At least I have the stones to take him on. If you were half the man you claim to be, you'd have tried to take him out yourself."

Eyes bulging in his head, Snape appeared to pass beyond merely furious, and for a moment, Harry wondered if he would burst a blood vessel in his head and die right in front of him.

"Get out!" Snape finally ground out.

"Not until you give me what I need," was Harry's even reply.

"So you can get yourself killed? Much as that would be a blessing for everyone concerned."

"That's not what I have in mind at all," Harry replied.

"Then what is your grand plan?" Snape bit back.

"I'm going to kill Nagini."

A silence stretched out between them, as Snape gazed at him with some confusion. "You want to kill Nagini," he finally stated, doubt coloring his voice.

"I don't _want to_ kill Nagini," Harry emphasized, "Nagini _needs to die_ for Voldemort to be defeated."

"What are you talking about?" Snape demanded, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I can't tell you what's going on." Harry flashed him a mirthless grin. "It's secret. You see, I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

Snape returned Harry's gesture, though his was more of a grimace, but by now Harry was not paying attention to him.

"The truth of the matter is that what's going on is so secret that it's protected by a series of oaths. And though I could swear you to those oaths, I don't really like you very much. I'd prefer that you didn't know any more about me than you have to."

Surprisingly, Snape did not take offense to Harry's words. He smiled faintly and nodded in acknowledgement, but made no further response. Perhaps in spite of himself, he appeared intrigued enough to forgo his usual angry diatribe or cutting remarks.

"Professor, have you ever wondered how Voldemort managed to return, though he had clearly died the night he killed my parents?"

This seeming non sequitur caught the professor by surprise, but he quickly recovered and raised an eyebrow. "Do you know that he did? They never did find a body."

"Oh, he died all right."

"And do you have proof of this, or is it your peerless intelligence speaking?" Snape's tone was positively dripping with contempt.

"Other than the fact that I was there when he gained a new body?" Harry asked.

At that Snape was forced to give way, though he did so in a most graceless manner—nothing more than a tight nod. "In that case, yes, I have wondered."

"There is a branch of magic which allows such things," Harry replied. "I cannot tell you exactly what he did, but I can state that it allowed him to return to a body given certain circumstances. He did not tell any of his followers what he had done, which is why it took them so long to bring him back."

"That is all very interesting, but what does it have do with the snake?" Snape asked, sounding impatient.

"Because the snake helps anchor him to life," Harry replied. "If he dies and the snake still lives, he can come back again."

The professor peered back at Harry thoughtfully for several moments. When he finally did deign to make a reply, he eschewed any kind disdainful comment about Harry, which was surprising, considering how this conversation had unfolded.

"Can I assume that Dumbledore knows of this?" At Harry's nod he continued, "In that case, I am certain that the Headmaster can handle it. There is no need for you to go and confront Nagini on your own."

"I'm certain Dumbledore could kill Nagini in his sleep," Harry replied, keeping his voice even and serious. "Unfortunately, he can not do so safely."

"That statement seems to be somewhat incongruous," Snape jibed, "even for you."

"Only if you don't have all the information. You see, professor, I have had the same thing done to me that Voldemort did to Nagini. If anyone other than me kills the snake, the magic on her will just transfer to whoever is in the area. As I am already under this magic, I am immune to it. That's why I have to be the one to kill the snake."

As his explanation continued, the professor's eyebrows rose to levels Harry had never seen before. It had taken him almost five years, but Harry had finally surprised the man to the extent that he was speechless. He smiled darkly at the sight—for one who was as knowledgeable as he suspected Snape was about the dark arts, it was amusing to Harry that he was unaware of just what those arts could do.

"So if you are under this magic…" Snape said, finally finding his voice.

"Yes, professor," Harry said with a sardonic smirk, "I have to die so that Voldemort can be defeated. And I know that you don't think much of me or my abilities. But being under a death sentence has given me a certain perspective. I don't want my death to be meaningless and I'd like to go out on my own terms. The first part of that is killing that snake. If you won't help me, I'll just have to find another way."

Snape peered at him for some time, seemingly trying to process what he had just been told. Harry watched him placidly, waiting for him to make his decision. His words about finding another way had not been mere bravado—but this way was much simpler and much safer, while the other would expose him to danger and discovery. But he was determined—the snake needed to die and Harry would not allow anyone else to put themselves in a position to become another horcrux. Too many lives had been ruined already.

"How do I know that you're telling the truth?" Snape finally asked. "For that matter, how do I know that you aren't mistaken?"

Harry shrugged. "You don't, I suppose."

"And that is supposed to be reassuring?"

"I think you know that I do not care if you are reassured. I can swear an oath on it if you like. But beyond that all I can tell you is what I know—this information has been verified and is known to be true. The only thing that Dumbledore is not absolutely certain of is that this magic has been performed on Nagini."

Snape blinked. "I have seen the snake. Are there any outward signs of it?"

"Larger than normal," Harry replied. "She would also be more vicious and more under Voldemort's control. And I'm not certain how noticeable it would be, but she might exhibit a sense of wrongness or evil."

Shuddering, Snape looked away for a moment. "I have witnessed all these things in the snake. Much as it pains me to admit it, what you have said about her makes sense."

Snape chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "It is almost certainly not wise to try to take on the snake by yourself. It is a very dangerous creature."

"So was the basilisk," Harry replied, keeping his focus on Snape. "And I'm the only one who can safely do it."

"And I will almost certain provoke the Headmaster's ire if I tell you how to find the Dark Lord."

"I won't tell if you don't."

A weak smile met Harry's declaration and if he had not known better, he almost would have thought it was a grimace. Clearly he had put the professor in a tough situation here. Snape wanted Voldemort defeated, but it would almost kill him to have Harry fulfill his destiny and have a large hand in his defeat. He also clearly did not like Nagini, if his reactions were anything to go by, but sending Harry into danger by himself, while not overly concerning to Snape, could affect his precious position and his status as Dumbledore's spy. For the briefest of moments, Harry almost felt a little sympathy for the man for putting him in this spot.

But it was what it was and it was necessary. Nagini must be defeated. No other consideration mattered.

"Very well, then," Snape finally responded. "I can get you to the general area. But what I cannot do is to get the snake to magically appear in front of you so that you can kill her."

"Voldemort does allow her to go out and hunt from time to time, doesn't he?"

"He does," Snape admitted, "but it's almost impossible to predict when."

"Leave that to me," Harry replied. "That may not be so difficult as you may think."

Though he was clearly intrigued, Snape did not say anything further in response. He sorted through a stack of parchments on his desk until he found what he was looking for, and then he showed it to Harry.

"This is your most recent essay in potions class," he states.

On the top of the paper, Harry could see that Snape had written a few lines, which he could not make out at the moment, and that his grade was an "O."

"Yes, it seems as though your work is improving," the professor said when Harry looked at him with some surprise. Only a handful of times had Snape given him such a grade during the entire five years of his attendance at Hogwarts.

"Dumbledore was right." That last was said in a quiet tone, and though Harry was not certain exactly what the man was on about, he nodded in response. It was pointless to say anything further—his grade on a random essay was not what was at stake here.

Waving his wand, Snape intoned, "_Portus!_" The parchment glowed blue for a moment before the light faded. Snape then took a small ribbon and rolled up the parchment, before handing it across the desk to Harry.

"The pass code for that portkey is 'revenge.' It will take you to a location about two miles away from the Dark Lord's lair. I advise you to be very careful—the sentries are not known to be overly energetic, and are as likely to be asleep as they are of actually guarding the place. But if you start to throw spells around in full view of the house, it will undoubtedly attract attention."

"Do you know where Nagini usually hunts?" Harry asked.

"I do not. I have not spent much time at the Dark Lord's side since his return, for reasons of which you are well aware. I do know that the snake also patrols the grounds at certain intervals, though what area and how far away she ranges are unknown to me."

"And what is the area like?"

Snape shrugged. "Sparse vegetation, precious few trees, rolling hills—pretty much what you would expect of a moor. It is a dreary place, made all that much drearier by the presence of the Dark Lord and his minions. Unless you are hidden by the landscape itself, there are not enough trees for you to hide in them. Be very careful."

Knowing that this was all he would get from the professor, Harry thanked him and rose to leave. He had gotten to the doorway when Snape's voice rose again from behind him.

"It would be a shame to waste that improvement in your brewing capabilities. Do not do anything rash and take every precaution to return safely."

Turning, Harry peered at the professor, wondering if he was actually showing a bit of concern at such a late stage. Snape watched him, but gave nothing away with his expression. Perhaps it was an echo of the affection Snape had held for Lily Potter which made him speak so—Harry was uncertain. He accepted the sentiment in what he hoped was the manner in which it was intended, and nodded to the professor once, before letting himself out of the office.

It was with a sense of purpose and resolve that Harry walked through the halls of Hogwarts toward the Great Hall. He did not truly feel like eating—everything tasted the same lately and it was certainly not for the pleasure of it that he continued to eat. But he had a date with Nagini fast approaching, and it would not do to be caught unprepared or weak from the lack of sustenance. The snake would die. Of this, he was determined.

* * *

**A/N:**

1. Thanks to everyone reading. I hope you are all still enjoying my little yarn.

2. I smell an impulsive adventure coming on!


	64. Chapter 63 – Away Without Leave

**Previously: **The department heads are vetted and several are relieved of their positions. Jean-Sebastian goes before the French Wizengamot and pleads for involvement in the fight against Voldemort. Harry and Ginny tell her brothers about the horcruxes. Harry determines he must be the one to kill Nagini, and persuades Snape to tell him where Voldemort is holed up.

* * *

**Chapter 63 – Away Without Leave**

It was a difficult business, this task which Harry had set for himself. He was under no illusions as to how difficult it would be to take out the snake—he well remembered her size in his first vision, and the way she had attacked Arthur, rendering him unable to defend himself in an instant. Trust Voldemort to choose the most vicious, dangerous, and venomous snake he could find as a familiar—or at least the one which was available, as the basilisk would not have made a particularly practical familiar. Or perhaps it was more correct to say that only such a creature would choose such a reprehensible being as Voldemort to be her familiar human. Regardless of all this, he knew that even discounting the benefits the snake had gained by becoming a horcrux, it would be difficult and dangerous to take out.

Of course the entire endeavor would be fraught with danger. Not only would he be deep in his enemy's territory with only a portkey allowing him to escape, but should he misstep once, he would bring the entirety of the Dark Lord's forces down on his head. Care and caution would be required to pull this off, and a certain amount of luck would not be amiss either.

But his course was set and he would not deviate from it. In fact, the more he thought about the situation, the more he became convinced that this was the only way to do the deed. Anyone else who assailed the snake and who managed to kill it would only find themselves in the same predicament that Harry was in. He could not allow that to happen—anything was preferable to being forced to live with a portion of a madman's soul residing in his body, knowing that at any time he could be forced to vacate it, but to continue to be tied to the earth, waiting for the monstrosity who had put him in that position to finally be defeated.

The other part of the equation was his friends. Due to his friendship with Hermione, she had been keeping tabs on him for years, and as he and Fleur had gotten closer, she had as well. But ever since the revelation about the true nature of horcruxes, the two of them had been watching him even closer. He still managed to evade them from time to time, and there were a few spots where he could go to be alone, which they had not managed to find, as long as he had the presence of mind to ensure he carried the map with him.

But it was getting much harder to give them the slip. Not only were they more vigilant, but they now had Ron and the twins keeping track of him, not to mention how Ginny watched him closely as well. And as the club in general knew that something was amiss, he found that he was the target of much scrutiny from many members of the club, and most particularly, by those of his extended group of friends.

For someone as private and attention-shy as Harry, it was more than a little annoying, if he was to be honest with himself. But he also knew that if he was to get snappish with someone, they would just back off and watch him all that much closer, though from afar. His plan depended on his being able to sneak away at a moment's notice—or when he had confirmation that Nagini was out hunting or patrolling near Voldemort's lair. Thus, the more he was watched, the more difficult it would be to get away quickly. And as he did not know how long Nagini would be out when she left Voldemort's lair, it was imperative that he quickly respond should the situation demand it.

That those around him—the Delacours, Dumbledore, Sirius, not to mention his peers amongst the students—would disapprove of what he was planning, Harry did not consider any further. That they would not like what he was doing was a given, but he decided it did not matter. At the end of it all it was his choice, and the situation demanded that Nagini be removed without the possibility of the soul shard in her being passed on to someone else. He was the only one to do it. And if he was very fortunate, perhaps he could leave, kill the snake, and return without anyone being the wiser. Then when the snake was discovered dead—Snape would likely bring word of it back once Voldemort discovered it himself—Harry could declaim all knowledge of the fact. He was proficient enough at Occlumency that he figured Dumbledore would need to move to active Legilimency to be able to discover that he was behind it.

But even if he was discovered, he would bear the reprimands cheerfully, if only he was able to kill the snake. Killing the creature would make it all better, of that he was certain.

Thus it was that Harry went through that day and the next trying to discover the snake's movements. At periodic intervals, he relaxed his Occlumency and opened himself up to the connection between himself and the Dark Lord, listening in to his conversations, and attempting to glean whatever information he could. It was difficult business as, though he heard nothing overt about any plans for the movements of the Dark Lord's forces, the man's words were often disgusting, and the hint or two he caught at times from the man was almost as though his mind were diseased. He wished he did not have a connection with such a repulsive individual—of _any_ kind—but regardless of his distaste, he put up with it so that he might accomplish his goal.

The first time he spied on the Dark Lord, he actually saw a glimpse of Nagini sleeping in the corner of the great room which Voldemort had set up as his throne room. Harry forced himself to suppress his feeling of contempt for the self-aggrandizing man, due to the fact that he was not at all certain that a burst of emotion such as contempt would not prompt his attention. Regardless of the fact that he was disobeying Dumbledore's request that he refrain from opening the link with the Dark Lord, Harry knew that the Headmaster was correct—he did _not_ want Voldemort to discover the link.

Still, there were a few interesting conversations that he picked up on. On an occasion when he opened the link during a mind-numbingly boring instance of history class, he was able to see one who he would dearly have loved to have in front of him so that he could administer justice to the little twerp.

* * *

_"I understand from Bellatrix that you are progressing nicely, Draco," the Dark Lord says to the young man standing in front of him._

_ "Yes, my lord," Draco replies. "Aunt Bellatrix has much to teach me."_

_ Amusement. Contempt. Disappointment._

_ Harry looks on as Voldemort watches Malfoy prostrate himself. Though the last time he connected with Voldemort he had been unable to hear his thoughts, this time the Dark Lord's feelings are as clear as though they were written in big bold letters across his forehead. In fact, now that he thinks about it, Harry realizes that the same thing has happened in the past—when he saw Voldemort back in the fall, he could get a sense of the man's emotions, but in all of his most recent visions, they had been hidden. Harry wonders why—it must be some quirk of the connection between them which at times allowed Harry to see his thoughts, while at others he could not. Or perhaps it was a function of the Dark Lord's own actions and state of mind. Was he being a little less guarded at present?_

_ In the end, Harry decides it does not matter. He is using that connection for his own purposes, and though knowing Voldemort's thoughts is not necessary, it is possible that he might learn something extra, and that would certainly be welcome._

_ The truth is that Voldemort is skeptical of Malfoy's insistence that he is learning, and Harry suspects that Bellatrix has reported that Draco is not particularly powerful and does not possess more than the rudimentary level of intelligence necessary for him to be even remotely Slytherin in his behavior. Of course Harry has always known this—the git had always been more Gryffindor than Slytherin, and the Ravenclaw in him was almost nonexistent._

_ It is unfortunate, Voldemort decides, but it seems like Lucius was correct in his assessment of his only son. Draco is a disappointment. The only reason why he is allowed to continue on in such a manner is because the Dark Lord still has a use for him. Once the Ministry has fallen and Voldemort has taken his proper place, there will be no more use for Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps at that time it would be best for the Malfoy line to disappear from the world forever._

_ Though he is disgusted by Voldemort's ruthless thoughts—regardless of the fact that they are toward someone Harry considers to be beyond redemption—Harry does not react. Really, if Voldemort decides that Malfoy is no longer of any use to him, then that will be just one less bigot for Harry to worry about._

_ "That is good," Voldemort says aloud, prompting a flush of pleasure from the young man. Again the contempt rolls off the Dark Lord in waves._

_ "You must be ready when the time comes," Voldemort continues. "Your part in the plan will be essential. You must be prepared."_

_ "I am anticipating my revenge,, my lord," Malfoy replies, and Harry can almost see the fanaticism in the boy's eyes. If he had not already known that Malfoy was beyond redemption, this conversation would have proved it. It will not go well for Malfoy should Harry ever cross his path again!_

_ Voldemort's response is another wave of contempt, but it is oddly mixed with a wry feeling of pleasure. If nothing else, the boy is fervent. Reconsidering, Voldemort decides that he will wait to see what happens. Though Draco Malfoy will never be a leader, he might be acceptable as one of his low-level thugs. The Crabbe and Goyle spawn were still useful, after all—perhaps Draco might be as well._

_ Of course, the difference between them is that Crabbe and Goyle are far to unintelligent to possess any ambition—the one facet of the Slytherin characteristics which Malfoy possesses in spades. But it would not do to be hasty. He would watch and wait, and then know how to act._

* * *

From that bit of spying, it was clear that something was happening with Malfoy. Voldemort had given him a task or a challenge of some kind, likely a mission which would allow him to redeem himself in the eyes of the Dark Lord for failing to bring Hermione to him.

But Harry knew that Hermione was supremely competent, and would not fall for Malfoy's trickery again. If the ponce tried anything again with her, Harry had no doubt that he would find himself overmatched by just about anyone in the club. And if Hermione had defeated him with relative ease the previous December, she could now do it in her sleep, Harry was certain. No, there were other, more important things in motion, than the delusional imaginings of a certain ponce.

Late in the evening on Thursday, Harry witnessed another vision of the Dark Lord which was slightly more interesting, but still contained little information.

* * *

_"Have you found it?"_

_ The Death Eater, one unknown to Harry stands in front of the Dark Lord, his sense one of nervousness and apprehension._

_ "We did, my lord." His reply is hesitant._

_ "And?" the Dark Lord prompts, clearly lacking in patience. Again, Harry realizes that he is unable to sense Voldemort's thoughts. It is curious, he decides, but pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind for later contemplation._

_ "It exists, exactly as you said, my lord." He pauses, as though uncertain whether to continue, before he says in a rush. "But it is very dangerous, my lord. Several times we were attacked and we almost lost—"_

_ "But you found it, correct?" the Dark Lord presses right over the man's stammering._

_ "We did, my lord," the man confirms, apparently sensing that to do otherwise would undoubtedly be painful and hazardous to his health._

_ "And what is its state. Can we use it in force?"_

_ The man swallows and for an instant Harry wonders if he will forget himself again and attempt to tell the Dark Lord what he had at the outset. His reason reasserts itself, however, and he nods tightly to the Dark Lord._

_ "The passage is narrow at the entrance as you said it would be, my lord. A short way in it widens out and proceeds from there."_

_ "And did you follow it all the way in?" Voldemort asks._

_ "No, my lord. The area is dangerous and we determined that it would be best to retreat and report back."_

_ The Dark Lord looks at him for a long moment, and Harry can see a trickle of sweat make its way down the man's temple, over his cheek, and down onto his jaw. He does a credible job of hiding his fear, but the expression on his face and the apprehension in the depths of his eyes speaks the level of terror Voldemort inspires in his underlings._

_ "Very well," Voldemort finally says, though Harry cannot determine whether he was truly on the point of becoming angry, or simply idly intimidating his unfortunate follower. "You will return with a greater force and follow the passage the entire distance to the inner entrance. We must be certain that there are no obstructions."_

_ "Yes, my lord."_

* * *

The discussion between the Dark Lord and the unnamed Death Eater was one which was much more worrying in Harry's opinion. Draco was a known quantity, and Harry had little respect for the boy's abilities. Voldemort, however, was on a completely different level altogether, and he appeared to have something up his sleeve. What exactly it was Harry could not determine, as the comments had all been vague and no specifics had been discussed. But Harry could not help but feel a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Whatever it was, it did not sound good, dangerous though it appeared to be for the Dark Lord's forces.

For a brief instance Harry considered taking what he had witnessed to Dumbledore, but reason quickly reasserted itself. Not only would Dumbledore be angry with him and take him to task for once again disobeying and opening the connection to Voldemort, but it was also possible that he would as a consequence be more vigilant where Harry was concerned. And that could make it more difficult for Harry to slip away when the time was right.

_"Besides,"_ Harry thought to himself, firmly putting the thought that he was rationalizing from his mind, _"it's not as though Dumbledore will know what Voldemort is talking about any more than I do."_

Having worked through these thoughts, Harry determined to keep it to himself and continue to work to try and find out Nagini's location. Through the course of that day and the next he often caught glimpses of the snake, lying in the corner, sometimes asleep, sometimes watching the room with that malevolent glare. She was always close to the Dark Lord and rarely moved, though Voldemort often approached her, to gloat over some plan which had gone particularly well, or to shower the creature with affection. Such times made Harry almost feel ill.

His breakthrough came during the afternoon on Friday of that week. He was sitting in class listening to the professor lecturing, when he hazarded a quick glimpse into Voldemort's mind, opening the connection, which was, by now, almost second nature. The Dark Lord had been alone and thinking—once again Harry noted that he could not detect his thoughts—when he had glanced around the room, and Harry was able to see the corner where Nagini usually made her nest. It was empty.

His eyes flying open, Harry had to restrain himself from pumping his fist in jubilation. The snake was not there!

It did not necessarily mean anything, he tried to tell himself, attempting to temper his excitement. It was true that he had never seen Nagini out of Voldemort's presence the whole time he had been spying, but there could be any number of reasons why the snake was now elsewhere. The spying of a single day was a rather small sample from which to draw, after all. If the snake's absence from Voldemort's presence was all he had to go on, he would and attempt to find her. If possible, however, he much preferred to have confirmation _from the Dark Lord himself_ that Nagini was out of the hideaway hunting or patrolling. Then he would be more secure in his ability to intercept the snake and finish it off without having to worry about returning at some future date to finish the job.

For the rest of that afternoon, Harry opened up the connection to Voldemort much more often than he had done before, trying to get some confirmation. And though he did not pick up anything interesting from the Dark Lord's interactions with his forces, he also got no indication from the man that the snake was out hunting. The few times he had managed to catch a glimpse of Nagini's corner showed no sign of the snake, which was encouraging, but nothing further. By the end of classes Harry had begun to build up a resolve to go that night, whether he found what he was looking for or not.

In the end, it turned out to be unnecessary.

* * *

_"Are we ready to proceed with tomorrow's attacks?"_

_ "Yes, my lord."_

_ Harry can feel the satisfaction tinged with impatience coursing through Voldemort as he peers back at the person of his chief lieutenant. Bellatrix, the one he has only caught glimpses of over the past few days, is standing in front of the Dark Lord, her face impassive with her typical expression. Her eyes, however, burn with a dark intensity, the likes of which makes Harry shiver. He can almost sense the madness burning through the dark orbs which are fixed upon Voldemort with a fanatical intensity._

_ The Dark Lord, however, shows no awareness at all of the close scrutiny under which his underling holds him. Perhaps he is simply used to her ways, or perhaps it is a function of what he believes is only his due. Whatever the reason, Voldemort sits on his throne, thinking of how pleased he was with the woman and how he wished more of his followers were like her. The very thought caused Harry to suppress a gag—he could not imagine an army of Bellatrix Lestranges, commanded by Voldemort._

_ "Good, good," the Dark Lord is saying. "Have we noticed any difference in the way the Ministry has been responding?"_

_ "No, my lord," the insane woman replies. "Our forces are usually gone by the time the Aurors arrive on the scene." She hesitates for the briefest moment before she continues, "We are not causing the damage I would have hoped. With the loss of our mole in the portkey department and their stance of passing portkeys out to anyone who asks, it has been much more difficult for our forces to mete out justice than before."_

_ "It is of no matter," Voldemort responds. "The fear and hysteria we are causing is worth as much as killing a few Mudbloods. When we wrest control from Madam Bones, we will be able to take more direct action. For now, be patient."_

_ "Yes, my lord," Bellatrix replies._

_ "Very well, you are dismissed."_

_ With a bow, Bellatrix begins to make her way from the room. When she is almost at the door, Voldemort speaks up once again._

_ "Be certain that the guard at the door knows that Nagini is out hunting. We would not wish for another… unfortunate incident like the last time."_

_ "I shall, my lord," Bellatrix replies with a bow, before she exits the room._

* * *

A surge of exultation passes through Harry, though this time he is much better able to control his reaction. Instead, he forced himself to consider the situation rationally. Nagini, now that she was out—and had been out for something which was likely close to six hours—would likely be out the whole night before returning to Voldemort's lair some time the following morning. And though Harry could sneak out of the dorms with his invisibility cloak, he realized that even with the cloak, he would be more likely to be discovered than if he left after dark.

Glancing up to the windows of Gryffindor's common room, Harry noted that it appeared like it was likely approaching dinner time. That meant that it was most likely above three hours before sunset, which occurred at about 8:30 in late April. A glance around the room told him that no one appeared to have noticed his sudden distraction or the burst of elation he had felt upon learning that Nagini was out where he wanted it. Hermione had her head down, concentrating on an essay for transfiguration, while Fleur sat on the sofa beside him, engrossed in her charms textbook. Their other friends were scattered about the area, each focused on their own tasks. It had become something of a ritual for them to complete their weekend homework as soon as possible on Friday evening, in order to have the weekend free of specific assignments due early the next week. That allowed them to relax over the weekend, and focus on revising, which Hermione was already pushing rather hard.

Silently in the confines of his mind, Harry began to plan what he would do, while giving every indication of concentrating on his homework. In reality he did work on the homework, but he was also building lists in his mind or how he would go about finding and ultimately killing the snake. They continued on in this attitude until dinner time, when the friends packed up their books and made their way down to the Great Hall for dinner.

Dinner passed in the same manner as usual, and before long the friends were engaged in the activities of a typical Friday evening. Hermione excused herself early, citing a need to look up some items in the library. Harry bid his friend goodbye with a smile and a tender kiss, idly thinking that Hermione was spending a lot of time in the library of late—even for her! Still, he decided not to think about it in any great detail that evening; Hermione's absence played quite well into his own plans that night, and he would not question the gift she was giving him.

Shedding Fleur's company, however, proved to be a much more difficult endeavor. His betrothed stuck to him like glue that evening, making conversation in a soft tone of voice, resting her head on his shoulder, sharing brief but intimate kisses, and generally acting as a young woman in love would be expected to. Harry was grateful for her love and support, but on this evening, as her actions were so in conflict with his own planned escape, he could not help feeling a little irked. He put up with it for some time, trying to think of a way to get away from her. It was much later that evening when the opportunity was provided by Fleur herself.

They had been sitting in the common room for some time, talking quietly, when Fleur sighed and sat up straight.

"Hermione has been in the library for a long time," she said. "It's getting close to curfew. I'm going to go and get her."

Stifling a sigh of relief, Harry instead smiled at the beautiful girl and leaned in for a short kiss. "That sounds like a good idea. I think while you're out I'll go for a walk."

Fleur gazed at him with some concern. "How about you come to the library with me? Then we can all go for a walk."

"I think I'd rather be alone," Harry said, trying to sound casual. "I just have some things to work out in my mind, you know. I'll see you later."

"Harry," Fleur said after gazing at him for a short moment, "you don't have to do everything on your own. Hermione and I love you. We want to help."

Smiling, Harry reached over and brushed his fingers over the silky softness of her cheek. "I know, Fleur. And I love you both for it. I just want to think about things on my own for a while. I'll talk to you later, or tomorrow morning, if it comes to that."

Fleur gave him a concerned look, colored slightly with perplexity, Harry thought, but she said nothing more. She simply leaned forward and pecked his lips before she stood and exited the common room.

For his part, Harry made certain he kept his actions casual. He waited for a few moments after Fleur left before he stretched and stood, making his way toward the dorm room stairs. There, he made his way quickly to the dorm and changed his clothes into some dark clothes which were snug, yet allowed him the greatest range of movement possible. He then took the map and, folding it, put it in his pocket, thinking that he did not want others to use it to discover that he was not at Hogwarts. Then, he took his wand and inserted it carefully in its holster, and then made his way back down the stairs.

When he reached the common room again, Harry noted that there were several people still in the common room, but that it was not as busy as it would be later in the evening when curfew arrived; most of the house was likely still taking advantage of the early hour to be in other locations in the castle. As it was becoming late, that circumstance would not persist much longer.

Taking care not to hurry, Harry made his way across the floor and let himself out through the portrait hole, greeting the fat lady as he exited. He then made his way down toward the castle entrance, arriving there within a few moments.

It was, perhaps, somewhat audacious of him to attempt to leave the castle through the front entrance where anyone could see him. The cloak was situated in his trunk in his dorm—he had considered using it to make certain that he was not seen, and had in the end, simply left it there. This early in the evening, his chances of being caught even while under the cloak were higher than they would be later at night with students still moving through the halls. If he was caught under the cloak, questions would be asked. By simply strolling out through the entrance, if anyone saw him, he could simply state that he was out taking a walk around the grounds before curfew, and the fact that he had left the cloak in his dorm would further support that claim. Besides, he was known to use the cloak on occasion, and it was always a good thing to act in an unexpected manner.

Furthermore, Harry counted on the fact that most of the students would be in other locations this late in the day, and that his passage would not be noted, as there were no portraits in the Entrance Hall to report his exit. His instincts turned out to be correct, as the hall was empty as he quickly passed through it and out into the courtyard. From thence he made his way out onto the castle grounds, but instead of turning toward Hagrid's hut as he had done so many times during his time at Hogwarts, he instead turned away and hurried toward the ward boundaries, casting a low-powered notice-me-not charm on himself as he walked.

It was only a moment before he had gone sufficiently far that he was certain he had cleared the wards. He then glanced around and, seeing nothing of any note in the vicinity, he pulled out the essay parchment that Snape had given him. Reflecting that whatever else Snape was, that he had a good sense for the dramatic—"Revenge" was the perfect password for what was about to happen!—Harry took a deep breath to prepare himself for the coming ordeal, and opened his eyes.

"Revenge!" he said in a tone which carried his elation at the success of his endeavors.

As the by now familiar tug behind his navel grabbed hold of him, Harry simultaneously felt a hand grasp his arm. He tried to shake whoever it was off of him, but it was too late. The magical travel field enveloped him and he disappeared from the vicinity of Hogwarts into the vortex which would carry him to the meeting with another horcrux. With him, he carried an unintended passenger, the identity of whom he could not fathom.

* * *

For Hermione, things in the library were not going nearly as well as she would have liked. In fact, Hermione had to admit that progress on the question of how to remove a horcrux was essentially nonexistent. But she kept at it doggedly—Harry was depending on her to find an answer to his problem, and she determined that she would not let him down.

At this point, after more than two months of assisting Dumbledore in his quest to find an answer to the horcrux—though in truth only the in past week had she understood the truth about the foul devices—a lesser person might have given up. There simply seemed to be nothing to discover—the Society appeared to have been very thorough in removing all references from the world. Or at least in Hermione's corner of the world. Aside from the books which Dumbledore had given her, there had not even have been a mention of horcruxes, and even in those volumes there was precious little. But now knowing the true nature of the devices, she had turned her attention to esoteric texts on magical theories and the nature of the soul, hoping that here would be something in one of them which would spark some inspiration. Anything would be welcome, as she was well aware that even the hint of an idea could start the creative juices flowing, which could lead them to an answer, even if the initial thought was incorrect.

But there was nothing, and Hermione was becoming rather frustrated. And of course it did not help that she knew that no one before her had had any more success in figuring out an answer to the dilemma either. She knew that Dumbledore was busy looking for a solution too, but he had many other duties to attend to, and could only spare so much time to search. No, she needed to help him as much as possible, and there was no way she would allow herself to let Harry down. She would do whatever it took.

Ten minutes later, Hermione threw the book she had been searching through onto the table in a fit of pique, and rested her head in her hands. Nothing helped! There was nothing to be found. How she was to solve this riddle she could not imagine. For a few minutes, she allowed herself the luxury of a few tears, hoping they would allow her to feel better.

"What's the matter Mudblood?" a voice startled her from her frustrations. "Feel like the walls are closing in on you?"

Looking up, Hermione saw the speaker, Theodore Nott, watching her with malevolence mixed with disgust and some quality Hermione could not define. Nott had stepped into the role which Malfoy used to play in Slytherin house, and though Hermione would say that he possessed the ability to annoy, he could not hold a candle to Malfoy himself. He was flanked on either side by Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode, something else, it seemed, which had not changed.

"Don't you have a rock that you need to go crawl back under?" Hermione asked dismissively. "There should be more room under it now that Malfoy and the bookends are gone."

"Draco is a Pureblood of longstanding," Pansy snarled as she stepped forward menacingly. "A jumped up Mudblood like you has no business even saying his name."

"I'll agree with you there," Hermione rejoined. "Even saying his name makes me want to go gargle bleach."

Pansy flushed and made to reach for her wand, only to be held back by Nott. "Draco's right," he said absently after shaking his head at Parkinson, "you do have a bit of a mouth on you."

Hermione laughed. "That's rich, considering he's always opening that gaping chasm on his face and spouting off things he can't possible back up."

Nott glared back at her with contempt literally oozing off him. Though to be honest, Hermione reflected, Slytherins of Malfoy's ilk had a tendency to ooze regardless.

"It's because of you my father is dead, Mudblood."

For the first time since they had approached, Nott showed a bit of some Malfoy-esque anger, and Hermione felt a hint of apprehension. However, she gamely returned his disdainful glare, certain that if they were to do something as foolish as to draw wands in the library, that she could defeat them, even given the odds. "Your father's own actions are the reason he's dead. Read the papers, Nott—your father did some pretty disgusting things in the service of your Dork Lord."

"When the Dark Lord takes over, you'll be singing a different tune," Nott said. His tone was back to the conversational one he had started out with, rather than the threatening tone that Malfoy had always used. Privately, Hermione wondered if he was a few cards short. "I hope you'll enjoy your place. That is, of course, if the Dark Lord allows you to live at all."

"You're as delusional as your idiot friend," a new voice broke into the conversation.

Turning, Hermione noticed that Fleur had approached them while she had been paying attention to the Slytherins. It was not precisely relief that she felt, as she knew that even these Slytherins were not foolish enough to try something overt in the library, of all places. Still, the support of a dear friend was very welcome when facing Malfoy's thuggish and equally loathsome friends.

"Ah, the creature," Nott intoned with a smug smile. "I knew that with the Mudblood here that you couldn't be far—inferior beings like you seem to flock together, not to mention how you all emanate a particular disgusting odor which I smelled as soon as I stepped in the room. I will admit, though, that you're at least a bit easier on the eyes than the Mudblood."

"And you have the look of an inbred twit," Fleur snapped. "We'd appreciate it if you would all get lost."

Once again, the two girls appeared as though they would prefer to escalate the confrontation further, but Nott merely smiled, and after motioning for his companions to stand down, he turned back to Fleur for one final parting shot.

"You won't always be together. Some day we'll get you while you're alone. We'll cut you off and you'll pay for what you've said and what you've done. I'd watch your backs, if I were you, though in the end it won't do you any good."

With a final pointed glare, he turned and escorted the two girls away and, presumably, out of the library.

* * *

Fleur watched as the three Slytherins departed while shaking her head. It seemed that Mr. Nott had stepped into Malfoy's shoes as the figurehead blowhard of the house of the snake, and in keeping with the symmetry of the situations, had attracted the two girls to be his bookends, much the same as Crabbe and Goyle had performed a similar function for the departed Malfoy. If children such as these were the best that British Pureblood society could offer, Fleur expected they would collapse before the next generation managed to produce an even less impressive future themselves.

Sighing, she turned to Hermione. "Looks like we've got a new antagonist in Slytherin house."

But despite her flippant comment, Hermione appeared distracted, as she sported a look of intense contemplation, coupled with a far off gaze. Fleur smiled fondly—Hermione had been affected as much as Fleur or Harry had been by the truth of the horcrux situation, and this return to her normal demeanor was welcome indeed.

"Hermione," she stated softly, trying to get the other girl's attention. "It's getting close to curfew. We need to get back to the common room."

Starting, Hermione glanced at Fleur before her eyes became unfocused, and a crease appeared between her eyebrows. "Just a moment. Something about what Nott said…"

Hermione was silent for several moments and Fleur watched her as she worried over whatever had been said, wondering what was going on. She knew better than to take anything the Slytherins said with anything other than a grain of salt, so Fleur was confused as to what was bothering her.

"Can I help—?" Fleur started only to be cut off.

Hermione's eyes widened and suddenly became focused as she started and peered at Fleur.

"I think I know how to help Harry," she blurted.

Then to Fleur's surprise and consternation, Hermione rose and almost ran from the room, uncharacteristically raising Madam Pince's ire with the haste with which she departed.

Bewildered, Fleur followed Hermione as she left the library, calling out to her—which Hermione did not heed in the slightest. Grimly Fleur followed her, wondering what she was about, and what her final comment had meant. The path she was taking led toward Gryffindor tower—Hermione did not know that Harry was not there at the moment. She would learn soon enough that he was not there, and then Fleur hoped she would get some answers.

* * *

The journey by portkey was relatively short, and at the end of it, Harry found himself dumped rather unceremoniously on a patch of ground surrounded by rolling hills and stunted trees. Unheeding of his surroundings, Harry immediately rolled to the side and had his wand out in an instant, trained upon the unwanted intruder who had tagged along uninvited.

As he got his bearings, he noted that the other person had also risen, and though they were not threatening and had not brandished their wand, Harry could feel the other watching him intently and even a trifle imperiously. It was that moment that Harry's eyes widened in recognition as the shock of red hair and light brown eyes registered on his consciousness.

"Ginny!" he exclaimed.

And then, of course, is when the surprise turned to anger.

"What the hell are you doing?" Harry snapped, gazing at her, eyes blazing with anger.

"I might ask the same thing of you," Ginny replied, her voice even and her countenance focused upon him.

Shaking his head and unwilling to say something unkind to the girl who was, after all, like a kid sister, Harry grasped the portkey in his hand and held the other hand out to Ginny imperiously. "Come on. I'll take you back to Hogwarts."

Ginny, however, had other ideas. She shook her head and backed away from him. "No, Harry. Not until you tell me what's going on."

"We don't have time," Harry snapped. "I need to get you back to Hogwarts and then get on with what I came here to do. Let's go."

"I told you," Ginny replied firmly, "I'm not going until I know what you're doing."

Exasperated, Harry threw his hands up in the air. "What does it matter what I'm doing? I'm doing what I'm meant to do, which is to get rid of Riddle. I can't have you as a distraction, Ginny. I need to do this alone."

Ginny's eyes widened and the lines around her mouth accompanied by her gaze boring into him bespoke her displeasure.

"Are you really thinking of just waltzing up and attacking Voldemort?" she asked incredulously."

Shaking his head, Harry replied in short, clipped tones, "Of course not! Give me a little bit of credit here—I think I'm a little more intelligent than that."

"Intelligent, perhaps," Ginny shot back, "but I see your time with Fleur has not cured you of your impetuosity. Now tell me what you're doing. I'm not leaving until you do."

Defiant, Harry stared back at his friend, cursing her stubbornness and unwillingness to listen to reason. Harry eyed her for a moment, thinking that it might be easier to simply grab her hand and portkey back to Hogwarts with her. Apparently she understood the direction his thoughts had taken, as she made a show of fingering her wand as she waited for him to speak with an air of exaggerated impatience.

But even though Harry knew that if required he could disarm her in a duel if he chose, he was not willing to raise his wand at a friend. Furthermore, now that Ginny had followed him and knew where the portkey had taken him, he knew that she could betray his plans to others, which would make his comings and goings impossible, if he was not able to accomplish his mission that night. It was either take her into his confidence and persuade her to agree that what he was doing was necessary, or obliviate her. And as he had not the slightest idea of how to go about obliviating someone, that was obviously not an option. Circumstances necessitated telling her what he hoped to accomplish and hoping that she would leave him to it.

Laughing mirthlessly, Harry motioned to where she was fingering her wand. "There's no need for that," he said, while holstering his own. "I'll tell you why I'm here, and then I'm taking you back to Hogwarts. I _must_ be the one to do this, Ginny. You'll understand when I explain."

Though Ginny gave him a withering glare, she left her wand where it was situated and rather primly sat on a tree stump nearby. Though it was dark and the locale was rough, she appeared like a monarch, sitting on her throne, favoring a supplicant with her attention. The sight prompted a rise in Harry's pique, as he suspected that that was exactly what she had intended, no doubt to give the impression that she was in control of their ensuing tête-à-tête.

Harry refused to rise to the bait, however. Instead he began to pace distractedly, unsure as to how to go about informing her of his plans. After a few moments of useless pacing and hand-wringing, he turned and approached her.

"Ginny, you know about the horcruxes now," he began.

A mirthless smile met his initial declaration. "Being one myself, I've thought of little else. I suspect you're in the same boat."

Harry's acknowledging nod was terse and impatient. "Then you know that for Voldemort to be defeated that the horcruxes have to be gone."

"Oh, Harry," Ginny admonished, "I understand what you and Professor Lupin have explained about how horcruxes work. But it's not true to say that he can't be defeated if they are not gone first. He can be killed the same as anyone else."

"Do you want to take the chance that will figure it out?" Harry jibed in response. "If he does, either one of us could be displaced without any effort on his part. The only reason he hasn't done it yet is because he didn't know."

"What makes you think he'll find out now?"

"I don't," Harry replied, frustrated. "I just don't want to take the chance."

"So is that what this is all about?" Ginny demanded. "Are you here on some misguided quest to kill Voldemort and die yourself? And what about me? Should I commit suicide so that your plan will work?"

Frustrated that she was not allowing him to explain himself, Harry approached her and put one knee down on the ground beside her. She gazed down at him and flushed slightly, and Harry allowed a slight smile to come over his face. In essence, she was still the same young girl who had had a crush on him since before she had ever met him, and Harry was not above using that for his own purposes. At least not in this situation.

"Ginny, I have nothing to say about your own situation. You know what the risks and consequences are, and I'm sure you will have to work your own way through them.

"But you're forgetting something."

At her raised eyebrow, Harry spoke, one word explaining what he was doing here.

"Nagini."

Ginny's eyes widened, and she looked down at him with disbelief. "You're here to kill Nagini?"

Nodding slowly, Harry rose and sat beside her on the stump. "Yes. Nagini is also a horcrux, or so we think. I asked Snape about it, and he confirmed everything that we know about animal horcruxes. Nagini has to die, Ginny—even if you and I were to sacrifice ourselves to get rid of him, it wouldn't do anything if the snake still lives."

Ginny twisted herself around so that she could look Harry in the face. "In that case, I think you need my help."

Nothing could have prepared Harry for those words, and he stared back at her in shock. A lecture on how he was being reckless; a demand that he return to Hogwarts; a crying supplication that he not throw his life away; all of these things were within the realm of possibility. But to have her state calmly and without any emotion that he needed to accept her presence on his mission was so utterly unexpected that Harry was unable to respond for a few moments.

And that, of course, was when his anger returned.

"No!" he declared. "Absolutely not!"

"Why?" was Ginny's calm reply.

"She's a _horcrux!_" Harry rejoined. "If anyone kills her, the horcrux will just transfer to them, leaving with another problem. If I kill her then the soul piece disappears."

"It may have escaped your attention," Ginny drawled, though there was no missing the sarcasm in her voice, "but _I'm a horcrux too!_ Wouldn't that make me another candidate to get rid of the snake?"

Harry was caught up short, and though he wanted to give her an angry retort, but the words would not come. Of course Harry was aware that Ginny could also safely kill the snake—or as safe as anyone could be when confronting a large, venomous, evil creature as personally loyal to Voldemort as Nagini undoubtedly was. It had simply never occurred to him before that Ginny was in the same position of being able to off the snake as he was, as he had simply focused on the need to do it himself.

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into," Harry snapped, trying a different tack.

"Didn't we already talk about that?" Ginny demanded, her voice alight with incredulity and indignation. "I told you that I understand about how a horcrux affects an animal host. The snake is likely to be very fast and dangerous. You're crazy if you try to take her on alone."

"I took on the basilisk alone," Harry snapped.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Oh, so Fawkes wasn't there?"

"Of course he was! But _I_ killed the snake! And I'm sure Nagini isn't even a fraction as dangerous as the basilisk was."

"Then you're a fool! If you attempt to find this snake while underestimating it, the snake will kill you!"

With an effort, Harry swallowed his pique. He did not want to argue with Ginny. But he could not allow her to share in the danger of this expedition. Truth be told, Harry was well aware of the threat Nagini posed, and he was in no way underestimating her.

"I'm not taking Nagini lightly," Harry finally said. "Ginny, I want you to go back. I will not be responsible for your parents' heartbreak."

A sudden flush of indignation came over Ginny's countenance and she glared at him with some disgust. "In your selfish thoughts about your own situation, you seem to have forgotten something," she bit out with barely suppressed fury. "I'm going to die anyway! So don't give me a sob story about how you don't want my family to suffer. They're already suffering!"

A sigh escaped Harry's lips as he regarded her with some compassion. The fact of the matter was that she was right, even though he had not consciously considered the matter before. But though he still did not agree with her assessment and felt that her family would undoubtedly suffer even more if she should be killed by Nagini in this Merlin forsaken place, he could not deny her right to choose her own fate. He had chosen his, after all—could he claim that she could not as well?

"I think you're not considering everything," Harry replied gently. "I think you're parents would be devastated if I were allow something to happen to you here. But I can't say that you're wrong."

"You _need_ my help," Ginny replied, a hint of steel in her voice.

"All right then," Harry replied, rising to his feet. "In that case, I suggest we get to it."

* * *

**A/N:**

1. A continued thanks to everyone who has made it this far. Getting down to crunch time, as the material may indicate.

2. My guess is you either hate Harry or love him right now. He's definitely pushing it, and there will be consequences for his actions, but at the moment he feels justified.

3. You also probably hate or love me, given I hinted at a possible solution and didn't illuminate you. It's coming, but it will be delayed a bit due to Harry's adventure. And if you're wondering why Harry didn't make Ginny go back, well he realizes that he doesn't really have a choice any more, and he also realizes he needs help. It's essentially analogous to what happened at the Ministry in the earlier chapters.


End file.
